The Year of the False Spring
by Sera dy Relandrant
Summary: 281 AL. The story about the Tourney at Harrenhal, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, the duel between Brandon and Littlefinger and the events leading up to the Stark-Tully-Arryn-Baratheon alliance and Robert's Rebellion.
1. Rickard: The Glass Gardens

_Roses red and roses white  
>Plucked I for my love's delight.<br>She would none of all my posies-  
>Bade me gather her blue roses.<em>

_Half the world I wandered through,_  
><em>Seeking where such flowers grew.<em>  
><em>Half the world unto my quest<em>  
><em>Answered me with laugh and jest.<em>

_Home I came at wintertide,_  
><em>But my silly love had died<em>  
><em>Seeking with her latest breath<em>  
><em>Roses from the arms of Death.<em>

**Blue Roses - Rudyard Kipling**

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><p><em>"North or south, singers always find a ready welcome, so Bael ate at Lord Stark's own table, and played for the lord in his high seat until half the night was gone. The old songs he played, and new ones he'd made himself, and he played and sang so well that when he was done, the lord offered to let him name his own reward. 'All I ask is a flower,' Bael answered, 'the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o' Winterfell.'<em>

_"Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious. So the Stark sent to his glass gardens and commanded that the most beautiful o' the winter roses be plucked for the singer's payment. And so it was done. But when morning come, the singer had vanished... and so had Lord Brandon's maiden daughter. Her bed they found empty, but for the pale blue rose that Bael had left on the pillow where her head had lain."_

**A Clash of Kings**

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><p>He found her in the glass gardens. Beyond the walls of glass, it was snowing, the light, soft flurries of early spring. Within, it was as warm as summer.<p>

She was among her flowers, her precious roses - golden as autumn, red as summer, pink-and-white as virgin spring and the blue roses of winter which she loved best of all.

_Why the blue ones, sweetling? _he'd once asked her. When she could be coaxed - or, more often, coerced - into a gown, she would always pick yellow. Yellow like the little lemon cakes she pilfered from the kitchens, yellow like the lionflower wreaths Ned would weave for her.

_Because they're the hardest to grow, _she'd said, wiping a smear of dirt off her nose and leaving it even dirtier. _Because they're so delicate._

_So it's the challenge that you love?_

She'd nodded and added, _And because they're the rarest too. They're not _that _pretty but everyone calls them the best because they're the rarest. The best. _

She'd always wanted the best. She'd always wanted to be the best. There was much pride in her, much vanity. _  
><em>

It had been a way to keep her out of mischief and keep her indoors when she was a child, setting her to tend her own patch of flowers in the glass gardens. For winter had come when she was nine years old, a true northern winter that made him bless the wisdom of his forefathers in building Winterfell over hot springs. The world might freeze, but as long as they remained within the stout walls, his children would stay warm.

At first Lyanna had loved it because, like any sensible child, she loved to play in the mud. Later she'd come to love playing with - and occassionally, poisoning - her plants. Still later, she'd come to love her roses.

_They're just like my friends, _she'd told him gravely when she was eleven. _Whenever I feel sad or angry and I can't tell Brandon I come down here and I- I talk to my roses and I feel better. _She'd blushed as she said it and then glared, daring him to laugh. He hadn't. She'd always been a child of quaint fancies and quainter whims, endearing and appalling by turn, but he'd never laughed at her. _And they don't laugh at me or give me stupid advice or pretend to listen when they're not so they're better than friends. They're just like a... a part of me._

She'd thrown her hair, knotted into an untidy braid, over one shoulder. The gown she wore had served her well only six months before, but now he could see her ankles under the stained hem. She was still growing and growing fast at that, more like a colt than a girl fit for marriage.

She nodded at him when she saw him and, without preamble, said, "Lotta said they'll die away soon." It took him a second to realize that she was talking about her roses. "The blue ones."

"Aye," he told her. "Winter roses won't bloom for you in spring."

"So spring really is coming?" she asked curiously. "It's not a false start? Like the one we had two years ago and Brandon said spring would come, only it didn't and-"

"No, this time it's for real," he assured her. "See the way the snow flurries? Customary of spring, the way it-"

"I wouldn't know," she reminded him. "This will be my first spring, remember?"

"Your second," he corrected her. "Your second. You were born just as spring began - it lasted three years that one."

_Springchild, _he remembered Alianne saying when Old Nan had put Lyanna into her arms. _They say spring's children are the loveliest of all, the sweetest and merriest. _That had been fine to hear but then she'd spoiled it, just the way she always did by adding, _And the shortest-lived too. Spring seldom lasts long. _True, Lyanna had been sickly as a child but at fourteen, a maiden flowered and nearly a woman grown, she was as hardy a girl as any father could have wanted. Perhaps _too _hardy. She was very like her brothers.

"Well, you can't expect me to remember a spring that ended before I was three," she objected. "I asked Old Nan what spring was like since she's seen so many of them and she said oh,_ beaaaaaaaaaaautiful, _so very lovely, so sweet." She made a face. "I'll still miss my roses, though, no matter how _beaaaaaaaaautiful_ spring is."

He laughed. "The smallfolk won't miss the winter, child. Five years makes a long winter and with grain and game so scarce they'll-"

She wasn't paying attention, his spoilt little girl. She was still at the stage where grain and game and the smallfolks' troubles were nothing compared to roses and springs and grand tourneys. No matter. She'd grow out of it quick enough, once she had the care of a husband's lands and keep on her own hands.

"Ned'll be home before dusk sets in," he told her. "He sent us a bird from Castle Cerwyn." He nodded towards her blotched and stained gown. Her hands and face were streaked with sweat and mud. "Best freshen up before he comes - he'll want to see a sister, not a little ragamuffin."

She laughed. "Ned home again after two years," she said dreamily. "He never minded how clean I was."

"He might've changed."

She shook her head. "Not _my_ Ned," she said decisively. Then she shot him a sly look. "Though his dear friend, the Lord of Storm's End, might." She giggled when he gave a resigned sigh.

"It was meant to stay a secret," he said. "Who told you about Robert Baratheon and-"

"And my betrothal, which you mean to announce tonight? Brandon, of course."

He might have guessed. Lyanna and Brandon had no secrets from one-another. "A gallant lord, proud and strong," he informed her. "Born to greatness." She was laughing so hard now that tears leaked out of her eyes. That didn't sound quite right. "You find him amusing?"

"No," she said. "No. No. Well... yes." She laughed harder. "No, not him so much as- as the idea. The idea of being betrothed."

"Four and ten is old enough to be betrothed," he said gravely. "More than old enough, I should say." Brandon had been betrothed to Lord Hoster Tully's girl when she was twelve. "I wed your mother when she was three and ten."

A Stark of Whitespring she'd been, a cousin with great lands of her own but no brothers. Her mother had been a Bolton and she'd been fostered under them after her lord father had died in a hunting accident. They'd schemed to wed her to one of their own. Lord Stark had put an end to that when he'd brought the girl to Winterfell, ostensibly for a visit, in reality to be wed to his only son, Rickard. Too young, far too young - she should have been playing with her dolls, not a husband twice her age.

"I know that," she said. "But it's still funny." She looked at him thoughtfully. "Storm's End... what's he like?"

He was ready with an answer that he hoped would please her. "Strong, handsome, gallant, courteous, witty-" He'd never seen young Lord Baratheon but he'd heard much of him from Ned's letters. Too much, if truth be told. They were the dearest of friends.

"-And no doubt as enamoured of himself as I am of me," she said, snorting. She sucked her finger thoughtfully, though it was so dirty that he doubted that it tasted any good. "D'you know, when I was eleven, I wanted to marry someone from Highgarden."

"Highgarden?" he asked, surprised. "Are the Tyrells so very comely?"

She shrugged. "I've never seen a Tyrell," she said. "But I'd heard talk of the roses of Highgarden and I was half-mad for keeping flowers in those days and... and well, I wanted to see them," she said shyly. She'd never been further any further south than White Harbour, poor girl, save that one time they'd gone to Riverrun.

_Gods, but she made a ruckus there. _

"They're beautiful," he told her. He'd travelled a fair bit in his day but he'd never come across gardens lovelier than those the Tyrells kept. "But I think we have a rose to match all of theirs here. The sweetest and fairest of roses."

She smiled up at him. "Me?" she said lightly.

He tweaked her nose. "What makes you think that?"

"My abominable vanity," she replied. "Whenever someone says the word 'fairest' I start thinking of myself."

"Then you should get along capitally with him," he told her. "With Prince Rhaegar wed to Elia of Dorne, Robert Baratheon is the fairest and finest of matches in all the Seven Kingdoms. Prince Viserys comes after Prince Rhaegar of course, and then the little princess but after them Robert Baratheon stands in line to the Iron Throne."

There was Targaryen blood in the lad - his father's mother had been the youngest of the daughters of Aegon the Unlikely. Her brothers had already taken brides of their own choosing so the fifth Aegon had given Princess Rhaelle's hand to the son of the Laughing Storm.

"The fairest and finest of matches," she repeated, looking amused. "Such a dear old father aren't you, to appeal to my vanity?" She stood up on tiptoe to kiss him. "Thank you," she said. "Is this to be my nameday present? It was last month and I'd prayed for a sword, but I suppose you thought a husband would better serve my turn."

"Lyanna-" he said warningly and she laughed. She laughed too much, if truth be told. Unbidden, Alianne's words came back to him. That sour wife of his had used them to chide a serving girl, but they would have applied just as well to the daughter she'd never seen growing up.

_Fine teeth are the ruin of fine eyes. A girl who likes to laugh will find it harder to weep, when the time for tears comes. And the time will come, child, the time comes for all of us.  
><em>


	2. Robert: Winterfell

_Thorns scratched at her face like the cats she used to chase in King's Landing. Sparrows__ exploded from the branches of an alder. But the trees were thinning now, and suddenly she was out of them._

_Broad level fields stretched before her, all weeds and wild wheat, sodden and trampled. Arya kicked her horse__ back to a gallop. Run, she thought, run for Riverrun, run for home. Had she lost them? She took one quick look,__ and there was Harwin six yards back and gaining. No, she thought, no, he can't, not him, it isn't fair.__ Both horses were lathered and flagging by the time he came up beside her, reached over, and grabbed her__ bridle. Arya was breathing hard herself then. She knew the fight was done. _

_"You ride like a northman, milady,"__ Harwin said when he'd drawn them to a halt. "Your aunt was the same. Lady Lyanna."_

**A Storm of Swords**_  
><em>

* * *

><p>Tendrils of pale light brushed the white birches and black shadows pooled at their roots. A crescent moon hung in the sky, translucent and fragile. The spice of bruised mint and pine needles filled the air. Hooves padded over the early spring snow. A girl laughed.<p>

"Best give up those dreams of riding at tourneys, sweet brother," she said cheerfully. "Or of wearing live steel like a man."

Her brother's voice was petulant. A boy's unbroken voice, he could not have been older than eleven. "I _am _a man."

"Not till you prove yourself, you aren't. Why you can't even best your sister in a little ride!"

Their voices carried to the stables, the boy's shrill and sullen, his sister's light and laughing. The young lords who were saddling their mounts for their morning ride heard. Eddard Stark smiled wryly and Robert Baratheon chuckled. "Few men could hope to best a northwoman," he said, in his loud, booming voice. "Centaurs, not women, the lot of them."

Lyanna heard and called back, "They enjoy the chase." She emerged, slender and small-boned, leading a mighty destrier. A warhorse. "They enjoy being caught too but it's a rare pleasure for them," she added, winking at him. She was fourteen years old, young to betrothal but old to coquettry.

Robert whistled, impressed. "A gentle lady's mount, to be sure," he said.

Eddard looked uneasy. "That's Brandon's, isn't it?" His older brother was hot-tempered and fiercely possessive - he rather wondered how Lyanna dared to ride his horse. Of course she'd always been his pet, but all the same...

"You have been away from us too long, Ned," Lyanna said fondly. "Of course it's Brandon's - d'you think Father would let that child-" She jerked her head at Benjen behind her, who led a smaller rouncey, "-or me, the sweet little virgin, ride one?"

"Brandon won't mind?"

Lyanna shook her head, a sly smile on her face. "He encourages me in my reckless and wayward ways," she said solemnly. "And he's supposed to be teaching that child to ride but he's too lazy, so I do it for him. And I do it better than he ever could." She patted the fine red beast's muzzle affectionately. "Chastity loves me, don't you, sweetling?" Chastity whickered in acknowledgment and nipped at Lyanna's fingers. But that might have been because Lyanna, who was almost always on horseback, carried a small mountain of sugar lumps on her person at all times.

_They probably think she's their god. Or a patron saint at the very least. _

"Chastity?" Ned asked, bewildered.

Lyanna looked at Benjen and Benjen looked at Lyanna. They chuckled together, rascals hand in glove. "Lady Barbrey thought the name might suit," Benjen said, grinning with an insider's smile.

"It was a gift for Brandon from her father," Lyanna said very sweetly. "Lord Ryswell keeps such fine stables, he wanted Brandon to have something to remember them by after he left the Dustins." Brandon had been fostered at Barrowton with Lord Dustin just as Ned had been at the Eyrie with Lord Arryn.

"Lady Barbrey wanted Brandon to have something to remember _her_ by too-" Benjy began but Lyanna shushed him.

"What?" Ned asked curiously.

"Not fit for your maiden ears," Lyanna said primly. "Not fit at all."

Robert, who could not bear to be left out for too long finally had time to put in a word edgewise. "Only riding lessons?" he wanted to know. "On a warhorse?" He looked sceptical.

"I do teach him to ride at the quintain when father's back is turned," she admitted sheepishly. "A bit of tilting, bit of jousting. Riding in the rings and so forth." She looked defensive when he chuckled. "_What_?"

"Are you sure that you won't grace the lists at Harrenhal, my lady?" Robert asked, amused. It was clear that he found the notion enchanting. "Shining armour to bring out the shimmer of your eyes." Ned winced. Robert was a good boy but he fancied himself a poet - which he was adamantly not. Mya's mother swore that he was the comeliest of men - before he opened his mouth.

"Perhaps I might," Lyanna replied, leading Chastity away. "I would be sore tempted to crown your lordship Queen of Love and Beauty. The crown of winter roses would bring out the blue of your eyes." Pleased with herself for having put in the last word, she sauntered away, swaying her hips in a way that reminded Ned once again that he had been away from home for far too long. Benjy trailed behind her, calling for a rematch.

"Up early, aren't they?" Robert asked thoughtfully, after they'd left. The sun had barely risen.

"That's Lyanna," Ned said. "Up very, very early."_ Too early,_ he thought. Whenever she thought anyone was sleeping in too late, she'd throw a bucket of ice-cold water over them. Or set their clothes on fire, depending on the weather. _  
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"And down?" Robert asked, looking hopeful.

"Very, very early too," he said and laughed when Robert's face fell. "Not your idea of a wife, is that?"

"I'll manage," Robert said cheerfully. "A man can hardly go back on his word."

Ned looked at him and he quickly added, "Not that I'd want to, man. Not at all - quite the contrary, as a matter of fact." Ned nodded, satisfied.

Robert seemed to have taken to Lyanna at the feast last night, though Robert took to every pretty girl he set his eyes on. She had looked well in her blue silks with her hair, dark and glossy as a racehorse's mane, hanging loose about her shoulders. She had hardly looked like the hoyden he remembered, from two years before - that is, before she opened her mouth. Lyanna's own opinion about Robert had been harder to gauge, though he hoped for his sister's sake that she had liked him well enough too. Most girls did.

Robert looked thoughtful. "She rides well, your sister. Such a little girl handling such a big horse."

Eddard remembered the rides and hunts and races of his childhood. Lyanna's banshee-like laughter as she pushed her mount forwards as hard as she could, Brandon bellowing like a bull, tiny Benjen who'd always be left behind squealing like a kitten... a cacophany that had always made him wince. He'd always been the quiet one, the one who was content to let them whip by. He had always come last in their impromptu races - winning had never much appealed to him but it was everything that Lyanna lived for.

"Some ride like the wind," he said, remembering something his father had once wryly said. "Lyanna _is_ the wind. She would outride Brandon and me when we were children and she was such a little mite then. Brandon says she still does, but then he dotes upon her."

"Spirited," Robert said, with a smirk of satisfaction. "I like that."

The wolf blood, his father called it. The wildness. Whatever it was, it made Ned uneasy. "You'll soon find you have more spirit on your hands than you'd care for," he told his friend dryly. "Lyanna was born half-wolf and growing up motherless in the North has hardly tamed her into a gentle southron maid." _Nor into one of your whores. _

"Hang the gentle southron maids," Robert said brightly. In one swift movement mounted his own horse. The bracing chill seemed to have put him in the mood for adventures. He looked so blithe that Ned smiled fondly up at him, more like a doting father than a friend. Lord Jon used to call him the spirit of temperance, a voice for reason. That was all well and good but life would have been dull indeed if he had not had Robert to rescue from his ill-considered adventures.

"Come now, Ned. I'll race you to that hill and after I'm done gloating over you we'll call down your gentle sister and see if I'm fast enough to catch her." The prospect seemed to delight him. His blue eyes sparkled and the early sunshine gilded his black curls. Handsome, very handsome. The Baratheons were known for their looks.

"Agreed," Eddard said, urging Darkmoon forwards. He thought with satisfaction that Lyanna, by all rights, should find Robert pleasing. Father is wise, he thought, as the cold nipped at his face and Robert's careless laughter rippled through the air. It might be a marriage of political expediency as Lord Jon says, but they will be good for eachother. They will love one another and tame one another. They will be happy together.

* * *

><p>Lyanna's dark lashes veiled her grey eyes. Under their lord father's stern gaze she was, for all intents and purposes, a demure young maid. Preceding at the head of the table, in the place of the lady of the castle she spoke low and let her sweet smiles wash over one and all. She was gracious. She was charming. She was a flower of sweetness.<p>

She was smug.

"More vension, Lord Robert?" she asked solictiously. "It is well-seasoned with the spices of Dorne and most tender."

Lord Rickard beamed upon his daughter. Lord Robert glowered upon his betrothed.

"Gods, woman, don't _mock_ me," he hissed. Brandon hid his smile and pretended to be listening to Eddard - he had heard of the outcome of Lyanna and Robert's race.

Lyanna lifted her bright face to Robert. "Mock, sweet lord?" she asked. "If I have erred, I crave your sweet forgiveness." Then louder, for her father's benefit, she added, "We have sweeter mockingbird's tongues if you do not favour the sweet venison. They will sweeten your tongue."

Robert felt oversweetened. "Very well, my lady, gloat over this victory. I will have the next one." He smiled, envisioning their bridal night. It would not be for two or three years - on her last nameday, which had been some weeks before, she had turned four and ten. Still young for marriage. But she'd be a lively one, to be sure. Put up a little fight. Good. He liked that. Just thinking about it excited him.

Lyanna read his expression correctly and coloured, looking down. Brandon read his expression correctly and looked up, scowling darkly. Rickard read his expression correctly and smiled, delighted that his daughter and her betrothed were getting on so well.

Ned and Benjen remained clueless, as usual.

"Will it be a grand tourney?" Benjen asked Robert. They were talking about Harrenhal of course. From north to south, from Dorne to the Wall, _everyone _was talking about Harrenhal, of Lord Whent's great tourney which would put to shame all tourneys that had been, all tourneys that were to come. It bored Eddard to tears but Lyanna and Benjen, cut off from fresh gossip in the north, were fascinated.

"Most tourneys are," Robert said, tearing his glance away from Lyanna. He smiled, for he liked curious little boys who looked up to him and talk of tourneys. "Ever been to one?"

"Small affairs," Benjy admitted, looking embarrassed. "The Manderlys put up one at White Harbour last year - Ser Domeric Bolton won and he crowned Lya his Queen of Beauty."

"I still have the crown," Lyanna put in brightly.

"Nothing so grand as the one the Whents will hold at Harrenhal," Benjen continued, ignoring his preening sister.

"_Everyone _will be there, won't they?" Lyanna asked eagerly, leaning forwards. "Prince Rhaegar to be sure, and they say the King might come, though he's not set foot out of the Red Keep for years-"

_And Princess Elia and the sweetest maids of her court, _Robert thought, his mouth watering. But lovely as they were, they were highborn. Their sacred virtue was a shining, impenetrable shield borne up by their brothers. You had to be a prince or a king to have your way with a noble maiden - a pity that his cousin, Prince Rhaegar, was so absorbed in his harps and his melancholy that he never took advantage of the opportunities offered to him. Robert didn't mind much though. The whores who'd set up shop at Harrenhal would be almost as pretty - though not as clean, of course.

"All the great lords of the realm save Lord Tywin Lannister," Lord Rickard told his daughter.

"The King's Hand," Lyanna said, remembering. "Why will he not come?"

Brandon answered for their father. "He quarrelled with King Aerys."

"Some say that it was over his son, Ser Jaime," Robert told them. He loved spreading gossip. "He's been appointed to - nay, _ordered_ - the Kingsguard and now Lannister has a misshapen imp for an heir." He roared with laughter as he envisioned the lion lord's face when King Scab had given the order. Sour man, he was, though they called his daughter one of the jewels of King's Landing. Robert had never seen the Lady Cersei but if she took after her twin she must be quite the beauty._ But then, _he thought. _If she takes after Jaime, she'll be as fair as the sun._ And he preferred his women dark, like Ned's pretty sister.

"A child," Lord Rickard said dismissively. "Jaime Lannister - how old is he now?"

"Fifteen," Ned said. "Old enough." Eleven-year-old Benjen looked fascinated.

Lord Rickard shook his head and opined that the Kingsguard was not what it used to be, when green boys were appointed for spite to wear the cloak of honour that had once belonged to men like Ser Ryman Ryswell. But then, his own sire had once had cause to grieve over the same - when King Aegon had raised his Fleabottom knight, Ser Duncan, to the White Swords for love.

Lyanna grinned and cuffed Benjen's head, "Not till you can outride _me_, Ben." Then she paused and giggled while looking at Robert. "Amends, brother, amends. Not till you're three and ten will we let you trade your tourney sword for live steel for you will _never_ outride me."

Robert pursed his lips and Lyanna pouted. She had such rosy little lips that he smiled and thought about how it would feel like to kiss them, to feel her tongue between his... A serving wench passed by, to fill his cup. She was a buxom young thing, a year or two older than Lyanna. She coloured prettily when she noticed his glance and bent low, her firm breasts brushing against his arm. "More wine, m'lord?" she asked in a breathy whisper.

"To the brim, sweet child," he said, smiling engagingly at her. He'd have to ask his manservant to send her to him later at night. A pity that her hair wasn't darker, more like Lyanna's - but there. She was well enough. Enough to quench his thrist for a night.

Lyanna was scrutinizing him closely. "Alva," she murmured, when the girl had left. Her voice was so low that Robert could hardly hear her but she was looking at him, eyes narrowed.

Almost immediately, he felt guilty. He felt like he used to when he was a little boy and his mother had caught him stealing green apples from the orchard. "Pardon me?" he asked, almost timidly.

She leaned closer. "Her name's Alva," she hissed and sliced a haunch of meat so viciously that it flew off her plate and on to Benjen's.

"Thank you," her little brother said, very politely.

"Riverrun, of course," Lord Stark was telling Brandon. "Of course we shall pass by Riverrun - you must be most anxious to see how your betrothed has grown." They would set for Harrenhal on the following morning, taking the White Knife down to White Harbour and from thence, a ship to Crescent Port and then the Rose Road to Riverrun.

Robert looked at Brandon. "I never knew you were betrothed," he said, in surprise. "Are you betrothed too, Ned?"

"Just me," Brandon laughed. "We're going to let Ned hunt for his bride on his own." Ned blushed as prettily as a maiden. _Ser Blushalot_, Robert remembered, grinning. Jon Arryn's wards had nicknamed timid Ned Stark that. He had been a rarity among them for he had neither wenched nor whored. The company of highborn maids had never been to his liking either - Robert had often wondered whether he preferred men and had once seriously thought of purchasing a fair-faced boy, such as the sailors from the Free Cities bought at Oldtown, for him.

"He'll never get married at all if you do," Robert objected. "He's not the courting sort - why man, he can't ask a girl to dance if I won't do it for him!"

Lyanna laughed. "That sounds like my Ned," she said fondly. She stretched her hand across the table and squeezed Ned's arm briefly. It was touching to see the easy affection between them.

"Catelyn Tully and I were betrothed when she was twelve and I seven-and-ten," Brandon explained. "It was kept between our families - never officially announced."

"Lord Hoster intends to make it official when we visit," his father said dryly. "He never made his younger girl's betrothal with Jaime Lannister official-"

This was news to Robert, who prided himself on his knowledge of all that mattered in the world. "Jaime Lannister betrothed to a Tully?" he asked.

"Little Lysa," Rickard said, nodding. "Lord Tywin and Lord Hoster had come to terms over it but then after the King..." He shook his head. "Lord Hoster means to make it official between his Catelyn and my Brandon this time."

"He'll make Brandon sign a contract in blood," Lyanna said sagely. "Forbidding him to take up the white or the black or any other colour that entails celibacy. Just in case Brandon feels like turning tail and fleeing when he lays eyes upon his bald, blushing bride."

"She can't still be bald," Ned objected. "She was eight when that happened and now she'll be-"

"Five and ten or thereabouts," Lyanna said. She was grinning, as though she had remembered something very amusing. "She was a year older than me, remember? And her sister a year younger." She turned to Robert, eyes dancing. "D'you know what they say about Tully girls, Lord Robert?"

_Probably something salacious but you'll just give me the watered-down version, won't you? _"What do they say?" he asked politely. He doubted he'd hear anything worth hearing from the lips of a gently-raised, highborn maiden like Lyanna Stark. _  
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"They've _sunset _in their hair," she said and began to warble, "_I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair._" It was a lovesong, as old as it was sad and sweet.

Eddard and Brandon began to chuckle and Lord Rickard frowned. Robert felt lost. "So... she has red hair? Your betrothed?" he asked Brandon awkwardly. When he was twelve, he'd lain with a girl with hair as red as the chipped copper he'd tossed her. _She swore I'd need but a copper to be a man, _he thought wryly. And then, when he'd innocently asked her why the hair between her legs was not the same colour as that on her head, she'd laughed and said that it was good for business, but she hadn't had enough dye for her legs._ And I gave her another copper to buy more dye and she kissed me and said I was a sweet little boy.  
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"Auburn," Lyanna said, smiling impishly. "Both the Tully girls do. _Such _a lovely color. So bright."

"She set it on fire," Eddard offered, by way of explanation, when Robert continued to look politely puzzled. "Lady Catelyn was eight and my sweet sister seven. A childish tiff. Gods, it was-"

"Such a lovely color!" Lyanna crowed. "_That _showed her! And it wasn't a childish tiff at all - she was a perfect _beast_ to me. Always telling me how old my clothes were and how dreadful my voice and how ugly and wild I was. So uppity and so very, very proud of her _beautiful _hair-"

Robert roared with laughter, picturing a miniature version of Lyanna setting fire to a prim little lady. Lyanna looked immensely pleased with herself. "They had to cut it all out," she said. "Huge chunks of it, and she was crying all the time they did - not because she'd gotten hurt but because of all that poor, pretty hair being chopped off. And after it was done she was as bald as an egg and then she didn't have a word to say about how ugly I was."

"Yes," Lord Rickard said firmly, cutting short his daughter. "It will be good for us to pay a visit to Riverrun. Benjen needs the company of boys of his own rank - Lord Hoster's son Edmure is around his age. And I believe my wayward daughter would do well to associate with maidens of her own station as well - it will be a good way to discipline her."

"Eh?" Lyanna looked puzzled. "I burnt her hair seven years ago, father. I don't need to be disciplined now."

Her father gave an exaggerated sigh. "You will forgive my daughter's ignorance, Lord Robert," he said. "I've never had her schooled in southron ways. I never saw the need to but now I must say that it is a pity that I have let her grow so wild and unmaidenly."

"Oh no, of course not," Robert said quickly. He flashed Lyanna a dazzling smile. "I prefer her the way she is."

"That is kind of you," the lord said, with a thin-lipped smile. "But what you find pleasing in your betrothed, you might not find so pleasing in your wife. Lyanna, sweet child."

She plastered a polite smile on her face and said, "Yes, father?"

"We have supped well tonight and you have held your place at the table with marvellous grace," he said, inclining his head towards her.

Lyanna looked uncertain. "Thank you," she said awkwardly.

"Will you not favour us with a song now?"

Lyanna looked horrified. "Oh father-" she began but Brandon interrupted her, grinning wickedly.

"Don't start on that again, Lya! She plays beautifully, doesn't she?" Without preamble turned around and bellowed, with the casualness of a young lord well-loved by his vassals, to the lower tables, "What say you to a song from your sweet lady?"

"A song, Lady Lyanna!" a woman called and others joined her. They were in a merry mood tonight for Lord Rickard had spared no expense for the feasts for his daughter's betrothed. Rich Arbor golds and strong Dornish reds flowed above the salt, below there was plenty of good ale for everyone.

"Won't you sing for your lord, lady?"

"How sweet are maiden blushes-"

In a most unmaidenly voice she yelled back, "My blushes aren't as sweet as yours, Harwin, when Irma has your breeches down!" She might have said more but now her father was openly glowering at her.

There was laughter and Lyanna had no choice but to rise and sweep down to the great hearth, cheeks flaming. Ned rather suspected that for all her mock embarrassment she was rather pleased at the chance to show off her skills. There was vanity streaked with her wilfulness.

A little maid had already brought the high harp for her and a stool. She sat down and slowly the hall began to quieten, till it was at last so still and silent that it sounded more like a crypt for the dead than a hall for the living. Clearly the lady was much loved in her castle. Tentatively, she began to strum the instrument and Robert leaned back and looked at her. Leaves of beaten silver glimmered like stars in her dark hair. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks were rosy, she had all the charm and freshness of an untouched young girl. He might not have netted a songbird or a clever wife but a beauty was just as well.

_Even better, _he thought. _For there are no song, nor words either, needed in a bedchamber.  
><em>

_The moon must be an angel, her halo surely heaven sent. _Clear and sweet the haunting melody filled the hall, the golden notes ringing loud and true. Already she was lost to them in some pretty dream, her face was pensive, her eyes far away.

Brandon leaned closer to Robert. "She loves the saddest songs," he explained. "She's romantic that way."_ Watching from above should the bells forget to ring, and we but lonely travelers following a ray of light all become the same when we begin to sing.  
><em>

"All women are," Robert said. "A sad tale, sweetly told, will win most of them. That's how minstrels have their way with highborn maids."_ Round and round we all go, where we stop nobody knows._

Robert would have preferred a merrier tune, a jolly bottle song to yowl in a tavern with a wench on his lap to sing it with him. This song was too sad, the singer too beautiful. For some strange reason, it reminded him of storm-driven waves lashing the shore, of two frightened children peering down from the parapets and the proud two-masted galley that had fallen on that day, seven years before, the day he would never forget.

_She has too sad a voice for one who knows nothing about sadness. _

Grimly, he turned his face away. Brandon looked at him inquiringly so he said, "She has a beautiful voice." It was true too. He would never have believed that Ned's wild sister could be so good at something so womanly as singing and playing the harp. _If it's sad songs she likes, she'll fall in love with Prince Rhaegar, to be sure, _he thought wryly. _All the women are mad about him but he has never broken faith with the Dornish Princess. _

"She is beautiful in all ways," Brandon answered, smiling proudly. Ah, the protective older brother - that was Brandon. Not Ned. Ned was the loving, petting older brother who let his sister wind him around her little finger.

_Heaven meets on the earth, for the sake of the song._ "I hope you will love and cherish her as she deserves," Brandon continued. There was a steely glint in his eyes._ Could you ever be just for the sake of being?_

"To be sure," Robert said quickly and made a mental note _not _to ask after Alva or any of the shapely wenches within a mile of Winterfell. Brothers like Brandon were always hard to deal with. Of course, there _was _a simple way to deal with them - but if the brother in question was his future good-brother he'd be better off not dealing with him at all.

_Could a melody ever be wrong, could you ever sing just for the sake of singing?_

The song had ended and Brandon was the first to rise and stride towards her, the first to clap. "Well done, little sister!" he called out to her. "Well done!" The hall joined him, fierce pride in their lady shining on all their faces. Brandon caught his sister round the waist and twirled her around on the floor. She was giggling and now she punched him playfully, as he led her back to the table.

_Brothers and sisters. _Robert thought wistfully that he would have rather liked a sister of his own, to tease and pet and scold by turns. He almost felt jealous of the way Brandon held Lyanna but then he quickly reminded himself that it was unseemly to be jealous of a brother-in-law. They were Starks, not Targaryens. Lyanna might be Brandon's sister but she would be _his_ wife. He smiled, as he thought of that.

His wife.

His.

He liked the sound of that.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The song is 'Sake of Song' by Blackmore's Night - it's very beautiful. I'm trying to keep this as close to canon as possible, so here's a list of character ages which is (more or less) accurate, I think: **

**Rhaegar: 22  
><strong>

**Elia: 21  
><strong>

**Oberyn, Brandon: 20  
><strong>

**Robert, Eddard: 17  
><strong>

**Stannis: 16  
><strong>

**Ashara, Cersei, Jaime, Catelyn, Petyr: 15  
><strong>

**Lyanna: 14  
><strong>

**Lysa: 13**

**Benjen: 11**

**Edmure: 10**

**Rhaenys: 1  
><strong>

**I know technically Petyr is supposed to be younger than Lysa but that always seemed just wrong to me, he seems more like Catelyn's age.  
><strong>


	3. Eddard: The White Knife

_"Robert will never keep to one bed," Lyanna had told him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm's End. "I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale." Ned had held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart. Lyanna had only smiled. "Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature." _

**A Game of Thrones**

* * *

><p><em>Ned remembered Robert's first child as well, a daughter born in the Vale when Robert was scarcely more than<em>_ a boy himself. A sweet little girl; the young lord of Storm's End had doted on her. He used to make daily visits to__ play with the babe, long after he had lost interest in the mother. Ned was often dragged along for company,__ whether he willed it or not. _

**A Game of Thrones**

* * *

><p>They were to follow the White Knife down to the sea. From thence, a ship would carry them to Crescent Port. It would be faster than following the King's Road all the way through. Lyanna and Benjen had both been excited about it - they had never been abroad a ship, either of them.<p>

Their train set out at dawn, wagons and riders, litters and a wheelhouse for the ladies with the banners of Baratheon, Stark, Karstark, Cerwyn and Glover flying high above them. At their lord father's command, Lyanna was mounted on her palfrey, siddesadle like a lady, but she rode at the head of the train, more like a scout than the lord's daughter. She'd pushed back the hood of her scarlet cloak so that the snowflakes melted in her long, dark hair. Her cheeks were ruddy from the cold and a sapphire brooch, carved like a rose, glittered at her throat.

"Put your hood back up," Ned told her sharply. "You'll catch a cold." For all her bravado, his sister was fragile.

_She does not weather the cold well, _he remembered Maester Walys telling their father after a particularly hard fever when Lyanna was six. _Take her south and let her grow strong and stout and rosy. _But Lyanna had been raised in the north all her life and had always remained a pale, slender little thing. _Like the ghostweeds that hide under the rocks, _she'd tell him, grinning. _They're pale, skinny little things too, but when winter comes they're the ones that flourish best.  
><em>

At least she'll have a chance to gain her strength at Storm's End_, _Ned thought. The gods know, it's as warm as a glass garden there - she should bloom there._  
><em>

She stuck out her tongue at him. "Mother hen," she said.

"Well, my lady, don't blame me if you find yourself too feverish and sick to watch the tourney," he told her.

"I won't," she assured him. Robert, who hated early mornings, was snoring blissfully away in the wheelhouse. No doubt he was attended by the ever-giggling Lady Alannys Glover who'd told Lyanna that his muscles bore testimony to the existence of good and gracious gods. Brandon, for reasons known best to himself, had kept away and so Ned had his sister all to himself for the moment. He didn't mind, Lyanna made a merry companion for a morning's ride, always full of gossip fresh and steaming and salacious from the stables. She might sing him a song to pass the time or a tale to chill his blood in her clear, sweet voice.

Today however, she was unusually silent and there was a shadow upon her face as she turned to him and said hesitantly, "I had a dream last night, Ned."

Brandon would have laughed and Benjen would have teased her but Ned only waited for her to continue.

"It was so sad too," she said. "Like... The Greenfinch and the Linnet."

That didn't sound right. "That's a song," he said mildly. "Weren't you talking about a dream?"

"Oh I still am," she said. "Only... when I woke up I felt just like I feel when I've listened to that song too many time. You know that feeling? That feeling when you've heard a sad song too many times over?"

How well he knew it. "A sad dream, then," he said. "I'll tell Robert to teach you merrier songs to sweeten your dreams." Robert's taste in songs was as alike as Lyanna's taste as Dorne was to the Wall.

"Well..." she twisted a strand of her hair about a finger and sucked it.

"Stop that," he said, without thinking, just like he had when she was four and he seven. _Don't suck your finger, Lya, you'll get worms in your tummy and you'll be sick. Old Nan says so. _"It's dirty."

She continued to suck her finger. "I was in a room high up in a great tower," she said, almost dreamily. There was a lost look in her eyes, as though she was looking beyond the snow and the horses and the fir-cloaked hills in the distance. As though she could not see them, as though she could not see him. "And I had a babe in my lap, a little boy with dark hair..."

"Robert's?" Robert's little girl had dark hair. _Becca says she's to be called Mya, _Robert had said ruefully. _Bloody woman, what's wrong with a Barra or a Roberta?_

"I suppose so," she said vaguely. "And I felt sad, so terribly sad as though I knew, as though I _knew_..."

"Knew what?"

"As though I knew something terribly sad."

"That's specific," he observed.

She threw him a dark look. "As though I knew I'd never see Winterfell again. There. Is that sad enough for you? And then the baby began to cry and when I gave it suck-"

"Where was the wetnurse?"

"-When I gave it suck, it didn't draw milk but-"

He put up a hand. "Let me guess," he said dryly. "It drew blood in place of milk, didn't it?" Lyanna and Brandon were both dramatic. _Melodramatic, _Father said and often suggested Brandon take up a mummer's velvets and Lyanna a monkey's skin. Naturally, their dreams always involved bloodshed, never babies. If babies featured in those dreams at all they would probably end up with their little heads bashed against walls or mounted on spikes. They would end up being sacrificed in red fires or left for the White Walkers as winter offerings.

Maybe it's a good thing that she dreamt that she was nursing a child_, _he thought. Maybe it shows that she's growing into a woman. Maybe, a few dreams down the line, her dream-babies would draw milk in place of blood from her breasts.

Lyanna nodded, untouched by sarcasm. "That's so. And then I screamed and I looked down at the baby's face and it had _your _face and-"

He winced. That was simply revolting. "Let's hope that you woke up after that," he said. Lyanna's dreams had their own way of spiralling into... something else. When she was seven, just after she'd burnt Catelyn Tully's hair, she'd woken up screaming one night. From her incoherent ramblings, they'd gathered that she'd had a dream in which Catelyn had risen from the death with her throat slit, and had turned into a hangwoman of the highway who'd meted her bloody vengence on those who'd wronged her in life.

She smiled. "I did. But I felt sad. Still do." She rubbed her head and frowned. "Maybe it was a premonition. An omen - like the green dreams the gods send to the crannogmen."

"Words are wind, but dreams are still less than that. They mean nothing. The gods are too cruel or too kind to send us omens of our dooms," Ned quoted softly. "Lord Jon told me that."

Lyanna scowled. "Well he's a fool then," she said shortly, dismissing Jon Arryn and his sixty years of gathered wisom with an insolent shrug. "An Arryn of the Vale, a Seven-worshipper, what d'you expect from him? What can he know of _our_ gods? I'm sure it's an omen. I'm sure I'll never see Winterfell again. Robert's sons will suck blood from my breasts-"

"Or the wet nurse's, more like."

"-Like they say Gendel's children in their caves do."

_Perhaps Robert will turn tail and flee when he hears of your dreams. _Robert had little patience with women's follies and he would probably dismiss Lyanna's dark dreams as the crazied fancies of a woman at her time of month. Robert liked gay, laughing, chattering girls who'd yowl 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' and then service him in the way the bear had done the maiden in the song. What man would want to lie next to a maid who'd scream for fear of the snarks and the grumkins that haunted her by night? _No man but a brother, _he thought, remembering the nights she'd crawl into his - or more often, Brandon's - bed, for comfort.

"Why don't you think you'll ever see Winterfell again?" he asked mildly.

"Father means to have me trained in the 'womanly arts' at Riverrun with the Tullys, at least till Brandon's wedding," she said, making a face. "And he said he'd try to procure a place for me among Princess Elia's ladies-in-waiting for a year or two. As I'm to be married to a great man-" she sniffed, as though she doubted that Robert was a great man or indeed, a man at all- "I need to know the ways of a southron court."

"You'll still have to come back to Winterfell for the wedding," he reminded her. Girls were wed in their father's homes, in the septs in which they'd counted a dozen or more namedays, in the south, or under the shade of the heart-trees in which they'd grown tall, in the north. They were bedded in the great beds in which their sisters and aunts had lost their maidenheads. It was a time-hallowed custom. It could not be otherwise. "So it won't be like you'll never see Winterfell again."

"Father might try to get me married in King's Landing," she said sulkily. "Think about it - Robert and his Targaryen blood. Didn't _his_ father marry his mother at court?"

And it would be an honor to marry off a daughter at court, to have the wedding banquet graced by the King himself, Ned thought. Why, Prince Rhaegar himself might carry Lyanna naked to the bridal bed, to honour Robert. _Father's not like to forget that. _

"Well... Robert's a good man," he told her. "He'll let you come back to Winterfell to visit. Your sons will have Stark blood - do you think Father won't want them to see Winterfell?"

She sighed, as though he didn't understand. "You sweet fool," she said, almost tenderly. "Ned - don't you remember my dream? The baby sucked blood from my teats, remember?"

He winced at the coarseness of her language. "So?" he asked.

She gnashed her teeth. "It might be an _omen_."

"So?" He still didn't understand. Perhaps he _was _as dense as Robert sometimes said.

"I might die in childbed! I think I _will _die in childbed!" she snapped and finally he saw the fear in her wide grey eyes. "Death and life in that damned bloody bed just like it was with Mother and Ben and Grandmother Flint before her! Father might want my sons at Winterfell but he won't want my _corpse_." She looked close to tears.

"Lya," he said gently, using the petname he had for her when they were little. He put his hand on her shoulder but she brushed it away angrily.

"Old Nan told me that it might happen," she said. "She told me after I'd flowered that it was a pity that I was so slim in the hips and I laughed - Gods, I laughed - and said it made me run faster. And then she shook her head and smiled and said a woman's hips were not made for running but for bearing sons. She told me to get some meat in my hips if I wanted to live to see my own sons running down their father's halls."

So get some meat on your hips, he thought, though he had no idea what she meant. A woman's turn of words, he supposed.

She must have read his thoughts because she shook her head and said, sniffling, "No it doesn't work that way. I asked Maester Walys if it was true and what I should do to make my hips meaty and he said that there wasn't much, that my body was made that way and it'd be toss of a coin whether I- whether I-" The tears were falling thick and fast now and the poised young woman melted in the face of the frightened little girl. She was only fourteen and she was afraid of dying. Of dying too soon, of dying too young.

And it will be soon, Ned thought with a sudden start that chilled him. Father's made such a good betrothal for her he'll want to see it consummated as soon as possible. A year, perhaps two at the most, and she'll be in Robert's bed. And lusty as he is, he'll get her with child within a few months and then... He shuddered. "Gods be good," he said softly.

She wiped her face and said dully, "They never are. Childbed's a woman's battle just like _battle_ is a man's battle. Old Nan says the odds are with me but the gods know I'd rather take my chance with live steel. I'd rather face my death than cower and flail in the dark, screaming because I can't stop what's happening to me."

His heart went out to his little sister. In a time of peace, men might go years without ever facing battle but a woman met hers soon after she flowered and every year brought a new battle. He held her hand, pressing the cold, callused little fingers hard. After a while, she squeezed back, hard enough to make him wince.

"Blacksmith's hands, sister," he teased her, hoping to cheer her up. "Still forging swords?"

In the north, a boy was taught to forge a sword before he learnt to wield one, for a man might not know a weapon until he knew how to make it. Ben had picked up the art off Mikken, the castle armourer, when he was six. Lyanna had been nine then and Lord Rickard, indulgent as he was, had permitted her to learn with Ben. But then, a year had passed, and while Ben had learnt to play with tourney swords Lyanna had only been allowed to glower at him from the sidelines of the fencing court. Lord Rickard's indulgence did not stretch as far as to put a living blade in his daughter's hand.

"I should have been a boy," Lyanna said finally. "I think I _was _a boy and then maybe father decided he wanted a girl after two boys so he cut the useless bits off."

He weighed that. "So... you think you're an eunuch?"

"I'm sure of it," Lyanna said honestly. "Look at me. I'm as flat as a board, with no hips to speak of and I can't sit still a moment like a proper lady should and I like to get dirty and ride horses and-"

"And?" he prompted her. The idea was as amusing as it was preposterous. Lyanna an eunuch. Well.

"And. And. And." She winked at him. "And I have a man's appetites."

He burst out laughing. "You eat like a bird," he told her.

"There's appetites and then there's _appetites_," Lyanna said loftily. She made a face at him. "Tell me, Ser Eddard, are you a maiden?"

He thought about it. "Last time I looked down I wasn't."

Lyanna chortled. She was as fond of bawdy comebacks as she was of sad songs. _Girls, _Ned thought. _They're so strange. _"Well, not a maiden then," she said. "But are you a _virgin_?" His blush was answer enough for her. "What, Robert never did his duty by you, sweetling?"

_Must you make it sound so... obscene? _"He tried," Ned admitted. "But-" He paused, remembering himself. Such talk was not fit for a maiden sister's ears.

"But what?" she prompted. When he frowned, she sighed and rolled her eyes. "Too dirty weren't they, those brothels? And those painted girls? I agree, if I were a man I wouldn't go visiting there more times than I needed, I'd just pick myself out a nice-"

His voice came out shriller than he wanted it to. "Lyanna, have you ever _been _to a brothel?" She might have, now that he thought of it - Brandon would have thought it the cleverest of pranks to sneak his sister into a whorehouse.

Lyanna gave him an odd look. "Gracious, no."

He breathed more easily.

"They don't sell men at brothels. For me, I mean. I don't think I'd like a woman very much. Or do they? At the Vale, do they sell men-"

He raised his hand imperiously. "_Enough_," he said sharply. "This conversation is most inappropriate."

Lyanna agreed at once. "Of course," she said. "Brothels - ha! It's the sort of thing a child like Ben should be talking about. A boy's braggart boast, to say he's been to a brothel and ridden a dirty mare. _We _can afford better mounts, can't we?" She threw him a look. "Well, not you perhaps, but me-" she smiled when his eyebrows rose. "I wouldn't even need to buy my own mount, since I'm _such_ a good rider. Good in both ways, I mean - I can assure you of that. And I'm not one, by the by."

"Not what?" he asked, already dreading the answer.

"Not a maiden," she said cheerfully.

"Lyanna-" he began. _And who've you been coupling with, sweetling? _he thought, almost amused. To be sure, it was not unheard of for a highborn maiden to choose her own... mounts, particularly in the north. To hear Brandon boast, he must have had Lady Barbrey Ryswell half-a-dozen times. That was as good a reason as any to wed a girl as soon as possible, many fathers maintained. But Lyanna had not seen a month since her fourteenth nameday. She wore such a sweet face that it was hard to think of her having any lovers. _Men's appetites indeed, _he thought.

"Won't you ask me?" she said, eyes dancing as he glanced doubtfully at her.

She looked like she was dying to be asked so he did. "Who was it, Lyanna? Who has stolen my sweet maiden sister's honour?"

She hooted with laughter and spurred her palfrey. "I'll tell you who it was if you can catch me!" she yelled and then she was gone in a whirl of dark hair and scarlet lambswool, with the white snowflakes clinging to her cheeks and melting in her hair. He could hear her mocking laughter as he spurred Darkmoon forwards and chased her through the snow for an hour.

* * *

><p><em>"There was always a singer at Evenfall Hall when I was a girl," Brienne said quietly. "I learned all the songs by<em>_ heart."_

_"Sansa did the same, though few singers ever cared to make the long journey north to Winterfell." I told her there would be singers at the king's court, though. I told her she would hear music of all sorts, that her father could find some master to help her learn the high harp. Oh, gods forgive me..._

**Clash of Kings**

* * *

><p>The brave ship, <em>The Dragon's Rose, <em>would set sail for Riverrun come nightfall. It was well-named for it's masthead bore a red dragon, fiercely carved, clutching a blue rose as one might a sapphire. In the meantime, Lord Rickard had given his children permission to wander through the little town of White Harbor at their own sweet will. It was market day and they might find a thing or two to catch their interest. When they were done, they were to return to the alehouse where he'd gossiped the hours away.

I'm getting old, he thought ruefully. Time was when I'd mock the greybeards prattling tales at the fireside. Now I find my pleasure more in talk of women and swords than in the women and the swords themselves.

Dusk was dropping fast, the blush-rose sky pierced by violet lances. He heard a girl's gay laughter and he guessed that it was his daughter. Comets and Targaryens blazed their way through the world attended by a trail of fire and blood. Lyanna blazed her way attended by a trail of laughter and sunshine.

Springchild, he thought. The flower of my hearth and of my heart too. Gods be good to her, I'll miss her dearly when she's wed.

He caught a glimpse of the train of her woollen gown - yellow, her favourite colour - and he heard Robert Baratheon's booming voice, before she came through the door, so slim and sweet and desirable that half the men in the musty room turned to look at her. She paid them no heed - she never did, she wasn't that sort of girl - as she headed directly for her father. A chaplet of blue winter roses was woven through her dark braids.

"Lemon cakes!" she cried in delight as she saw the tray, ladden with the dear little cakes she loved best, in front of him. "Did you order them all for me?"

When he nodded, she fell upon them like a ravening savage. "Gently," he cautioned her while she crammed one whole into her mouth. "You'll choke, child."

"I won't," she said, her mouth full of cake, her lips layered with sugar and icing. "I could eat an aurochs pie right now, I'm _so_ hungry, we walked up and down the town, up and down and all around..."

"What for?" he asked, mildly interested.

"Oh Ben had some fool idea in his head that he'd get a good bargain on a dagger he saw and so what must we do but peek into each and every smithy and armoury the place offered and you wouldn't _believe _how far spread they were, stupid town.."

He touched the roses in her hair. "Pretty," he said, interrupting her tirade on the fools who'd first planned the town. "And a pretty penny they must have cost you too." Winter roses were dear enough in winter but in spring their price must have been nigh exorbitant. "Which of your brothers was fool enough to squander so many coppers for you, my spoilt child?"

Lyanna grinned at him. "What are betrotheds for?" she said archly. "He said he'd spent so much on my roses that he shouldn't have to get me a troth gift after all."

It was traditional for a man to give his betrothed a troth gift shortly after their betrothal was announced. Peasant lads gave their sweethearts winter roses, great lords gave their highborn ladies gems. Prince Rhaegar had given the Princess Elia the Tower of Joy, tucked in Dorne between the red mountains and the salty marshes. As King Aegon the Fifth had cherished fair Summerhall, so did Prince Rhaegar cherish the remote Tower of Joy. Princess Rhaenys had been born in that castle and there was little doubt that in time, a brother would be born to her in that tower.

Brandon's troth gift to Catelyn would be a Dornish blood bay, as wild and lovely as fire and with a lineage long enough to match the Targaryens'. Lord Rickard had personally selected it and was rather proud of himself. It was in the best possible taste and the mare's fiery coat would match the fire of the girl's Tully-red hair.

"And what did you say to him?" he asked mildly.

She smiled impishly. "I said I'd be as niggardly with my kisses if he was as niggardly with his gifts. And then he laughed some and said he'd buy me a troupe of minstrels to sing me sad songs all day long. To quote him - 'So that you might weep all day long, sweetling. Maids that weep by day need strong arms to hold them by night.' Ben's still bargaining and Brandon went off somewhere... Robert's gone back to fetch Ben and Ned. He'll be a while - that damn armoury is at the other end of this place."

He chuckled. "So you've had a merry day with your brothers?" he asked. "And with Robert?"

"Could I have more lemon pies, please?" she asked. She'd polished them all off.

"You shall," he promised her. "After you tell me whether you enjoyed yourself."

"Do I get more lemon pies if I say yes?"

"You get more if you tell the truth." His eyes narrowed as she hesitated. "Lyanna, sweet child," he said gently and reached out to hold her hand. "What is it?"

"I... I enjoyed it," she said uncertainly. "When Ned or Brandon or Ben were around but when it was only us-"

"Only us?" he asked, eyebrows rising. "Was that entirely proper?"

"No, it wasn't like that," she said quickly. "Ned and Brandon had gone ahead and Ben was lingering behind and we were walking together and... and..." she looked uncertain. "He... he makes me nervous when we're alone together, Father. I don't- I mean, I don't-" She was blushing.

_His lust makes you nervous. _"You do not like the way he looks at you?" he asked her quietly. "The way he smiles?" When she nodded, he sighed and said, "Keep your brothers by you, if it comforts you now. But, Lyanna he _is_-"

"My betrothed," she snapped. "I know, I know I'm as much his as a-a cow or a goat or a whore he's paid for!" She scowled. "I _hate _the way he looks at me," she burst out. "Like I'm as low as Alva or Irma or-or-"

"Or the scores of women he has doubtless bedded," her father sighed. "Well what would you have? A meek boy with chilled water running through his veins, like Ned? Or a true man who has a true man's lusts?" _Will a man not enjoy the fruits of his orchard? A wise man would pluck them after they ripen, a fool would pluck them green. But wise man or fool, pluck them he shall. _

She muttered something that had the word 'bastard' in it.

"A Stone in the Vale," he said calmly. "Ned told me he doted on the child - is that not to the good, Lyanna? He is a kind man, he will cherish your children."

"Everyone cherishes their children," she said sulkily.

He thought about the wildlings beyond the wall who left their sons for the White Walkers and the red slaves of Asshai-by-the-Shadow who burnt their daughters. Then he thought closer home of the great lords who gave their baseborn infants to their lady wives to do with as they willed, of highborn daughters chained to their rooms and sold to men old enough to be their grandfathers and weakling firstborn sons who were killed to make way for their stronger brothers.

"Not all," he said calmly. "What is it that you have against his baseborn daughter? You have plagued Ned's life out by asking him all that he knows about the girl and the mother."

"They're born under an evil star, bastards, they are," she snapped, sounding like an ignorant bogwoman. "Craven blood, cruel blood. Old Nan says so."

"And no doubt Old Nan is a fount of wisdom," he said dryly. When she flushed he said, "Bastards are made the same way as trueborn children. They have the same parts, they speak the same truths and the same lies-"

"And they're _dangerous,_" she insisted, wide-eyed. "Why look at how much trouble the Blackfyres gave the Targaryens!"

"So Robert's little Stone will give your sons as much trouble?" he asked. "Somehow I doubt it. I ought to set you to reading scrolls with Maester Walys and his apprentice, Maester Luwin - the Blackfyres proved a danger not because they were baseborn but because of other circumstances, existential circumstances-"

She was losing interest. She had never had much interest in scrolls and old lore - save when it was served in the form of songs and stories. Ned had been the only bookish one in the family - Lyanna and Brandon and Benjen would all have rather scrubbed pots and pans than read.

"A man's lust is a hard thing to overcome," he said. "Nigh impossible. I would not expect you to understand it."

"Of course not," she said sourly. "I am but a woman." She twirled a strand of hair about her finger. "Did you find it so very hard to overcome, father? Have you any natural children we have never met?"

"None," he said. "Lust was never a vice of mine."

"Oh." She chewed her finger. "Brandon?"

"Not your brother-"

"Ned?"

He chortled. _By all rights Ned ought to have been my daughter and Lyanna my son. He is meeker than her. _

"I see." She nodded. "It must be a southron custom - siring bastards so young."

That sounded right. He had always noted that men of the south tended to sire more baseborn children than those of the north. Men of the south were more given unto pleasure and the sins of the flesh. The passions of the men of the north were tempered with iron and ice. They would rather have bloodsport than bedsport. "Perhaps because it is warmer," he suggested quickly. "The heat and they do call it summer-seeming lust..."

Her eyes flashed. "Why, if that's so," she said sweetly, "The Others must be perfect paragons of virtue."

Vaguely he wondered if the Others produced young ones or whether, as the old tales suggested, they were immortal. _No, perhaps not immortal. What is not mortal cannot be called immortal. Deathless then, as they are lifeless. _He ordered a plate of lemon pies and as she stared glumly into the dancing flames in the grate he said, "Do you remember that list you once made about the husband you'd like?"

She looked confused and shook her head.

"Ah, I would not expect you to remember it," he said. "You were five, I think... you'd just had a fight with Brandon and as I recall it, he'd bested you."

"What d'you expect?" she asked. "If I was five he must have been eleven. He must have been three times my size."

He smiled indulgently at her. "You still fight with beasts three times your size," he said. "Your brother's destriers now, in place of him."

_And soon in place of your brother's destriers, your betrothed. _Robert Baratheon was a large man, six and a half feet of sheer brawn and wild lust and in, Lady Alannys' words 'god-sculpted muscle'. Lyanna stood nearly a foot shorter and rhough she was tall enough for her age, she was slender, almost fragile. For a moment Rickard worried that the daughter that he was handing over was too small, too delicate. 

_If he will not be gentle with her, there'll be swords crossed between him and Brandon, _he thought. His oldest son was a hot-tempered lad and he cherished his sister as one might a lover. _And great lord or not, if he brings any sorrow or shame upon Lyanna I will cross more than words with him, old as I am. _She was his only daughter, his precious little girl, and though he wanted a great marriage for her, he would not have it at the cost of her comfort.

"But now I best them instead of letting them best me," she said airily. That was true enough - he'd never seen a finer horsewoman than her, and few men who could ride as well. Young Ser Domeric now, was one. Roose Bolton had suggested a match between his son and Lord Rickard's daughter but there had already been other plans set in motion for her by then. Greater forces were at play than a young girl's happiness.

"Anyhow," he said. "You were most wroth with Brandon and you curled up on my lap and told me to find you a husband bigger and stronger than Brandon, who could beat him up."

She laughed. "Well Robert's bigger than Brandon," she admitted. "Bigger than most men."

"I suggested that you compile a list of the attributes you would like to see in your betrothed he said." He smiled. "You were new to letters too, as I recall it... most tipsy handwriting. But your pictures were graphic, alarmingly so. I think there was one of your husband crushing Brandon to death with a warhammer. Brandon looked over it and laughed and said that in time you'd be wanting a handsome husband too, because all girls do, and so we added handsome to your list."

"He does have pretty eyes," Lyanna said._ Blue-eyed little girls and boys, _she thought for a moment. She'd always hated her grey eyes - grey was such a sad colour. She much preferred yellow. Though, to be sure, yellow eyes would have looked passing strange. _I wonder how purple eyes look. _

"And then Ned, ever our pragmatic Ned, added 'kind' and 'generous' and 'rich' - just in case." He looked steadily into his daughter's eyes. "He is rich, as you well know. He is-" He touched the roses in her hair once again. "Generous. And he is-"

"Kind," she admitted. She made a face. "We ought to have added 'sweet-tongued' and 'faithful' and then-"

"You would have Baelor the Blessed in your bed," her father said dryly. "And no woman wants Baelor the Blessed in her bed, my child, trust me on that."

She bit daintily into a lemon cake. "I'll hate it," she said softly. When he looked enquiringly at her she sighed and said, "If he keeps a bastard at Storm's End, I'll hate it, I'd just loathe the little thing and the poor mother. Gods forgive me, lust might not be my vice but jealousy is, it always has been-"

He remembered how jealous she had been of beautiful little Catelyn Tully. She'd burnt off the girl's hair.

"I'd be a perfect monster to it, I know I would and- and I don't _want _to be a monster-"

_Who does?_

"-but I'd never be able to stop myself, you know how I get-"

The wildness. The wolf blood.

"And I'd want to _kill _it, I know I would, why when I first heard about his child in the Vale, I-I-" she shook her head. "I thought of something beastly." _Pickled children in little jam jars. Fingers sliced and stewed and little ears and noses cut up and served in hot pies. Pickles and stews and pies for the mothers.  
><em>

He knew how vivid her imagination was. If she said beastly, she meant barbaric on the scale of Maegor the Cruel's monstrosities. "Why should he bring his child to Storm's End?" he asked. Bastards were reared well away from their fathers' households. It would not be fitting to keep a baseborn child with trueborn children. You might as well have kept a whore with a lady. "He would never seek to insult you so."

"Not _that _one," she said. "But there'll be others, of course they will, Robert's hardly a man to stop at one-" No doubt she was right.

"He'll keep a mistress in Storm's End, perhaps," she said sulkily. "Sneak a maid into my service and I'll know, every night of my life I'll go on knowing that he's bedding the girl who sweeps the floors or brushes my hair. I'll know he's called her 'sweetling' and kissed her the way he might kiss me and it'll rankle, gods it'll rankle, knowing that I'm not the best, the most loved. I'll stumble across little crow-haired urchins all over the castle floors and perhaps I'll confuse them for my own children because they'll look so like him and-"

"And you will permit that?" he raised his eyebrows. "I never thought you to be so meekly made."

"What choice do I have?" she asked sulkily. "You said he bought me as though I were his goat. Goats don't fight back."

Perhaps I ought to take you to the fighting pits of Meeren. They breed all sorts of creatures to fight there - bears and tigers and cocks. Why not goats? "You," he informed her, "Are a lady goat. Gently bred and gently reared. Perhaps I have been lapse in your education but that will be changed. We are taking you to Riverrun for a reason."

"To learn how to keep my lord husband in place from the likes of Catelyn Tully?"

He nodded. "Precisely."

She giggled. "Brandon won't like that. Knowing that his wife knows enough to make him toe the line, I mean."

"He'll be properly grateful for it once she's broken him in," Rickard said dryly. "All men are. We all love masterful women to coddle and bully us as our mothers did." He ticked the names off his fingers smugly. "Brandon wed to a Tully. You wed to a Baratheon." _Like links in a mighty chain, we forge our alliances._

He thought wryly of Tywin Lannister, who fancied himself a god - or a king. He had schemed to wed his daughter to a Targaryen prince but he had aimed too high and for his pains had heard the thundering crash of his pride falling about him. His daughter was still unspoken for, one son wore a white cloak and the other was a dwarf whom none would wed.

_And I offered him my Brandon once to have him spit back in my face. Well, that should show him. That should show him._

"How grand we shall be," Lyanna said dryly. "There won't be brides great enough left for Ned and Ben."

He had a gem of an idea in his mind for Ben. "Prince Doran has a little daughter," he began slowly. "Arianne Martell, and a sweet thing she is too, not six years old. They'll want a boy of high birth for her soon, but not an heir no... they'll want a boy who they can raise in Dorne so he'll be tractable and-"

She was losing interest. Her eyes had strayed over to a tall man with sandy curls in a troubadour's cloak of many colours. Singers were too few and far-between at Winterfell for a girl who loved songs as much as his daughter did. She will love it at court, he thought. Singing and dancing and merriment all day long.

He threw her a copper. "Run and tell him to sing you one of your silly songs," he said.

"They're _not _silly," Lyanna protested but run off she did, as eagerly as a child. Perhaps she'd want The Greenfinch and The Linnet - she'd always fancied herself a caged songbird, trapped by the limits of her sex. Or the Rains of Castamere - a simple tune it was, but it had a way of sticking in her head. It would be sad no doubt - she loved sad tales even better than lemon pies. Perhaps it was because she had no sad tales of her own yet.

_Gods preserve her, _he thought. _May she never have a sad tale of her own to tell. _

**A/N: I've added a link to a picture that reminds me of Lyanna, on my profile. Check it out!**


	4. Rhaegar: The Red Keep

_"Perhaps so, Your Grace." Whitebeard paused a moment. "But I am not certain it was in Rhaegar to be happy." _

**A Storm of Swords**

* * *

><p>He woke with a start.<p>

Bands of violet-tinted light crept through the shutter-slats. He could hear the muffled notes of his daughter's songbirds in their golden cage as they made sweet music before the dawn. He heard the splash of mulled wine as it was poured into a cup of crystal and then his wife's soft voice as she handed it to him.

"You cried out in your sleep."

He quaffed the wine to clear his head. "You ought to be used to that by now."

He could hear the smile in her voice as she agreed. "I ought." She stroked his forehead, brushing the curls matted to the sweat-slick skin. "The gods sent you a dream."

"There are no gods," he grumbled. He had never placed his faith in any gods made by men. He afforded the seven-pointed star of the Faith the same courtesy as he would the weirwoods of the North or the red fires of R'hllor or the Drowned Gods of the Ironborn for they were all alike to him. He would bow to no gods that he had not seen with his own eyes. "How many times will you have me repeat it?"

"There are gods and there are _gods_," she said easily. "You have your gods as all men do, Rhaegar. Yours are but spun of air, your dreams and your prophecies."

That was unfair, grievously unfair. "They are hardly my gods," he insisted. "I take them for warnings, as they are, but I do not mount them on pedestals in my heart."

She laughed. "Not yet," she warned him. "Not yet."

"Say never in place of not yet," he retorted. "Do you take me for a-" He was about to say 'a man' but he stopped abruptly. _You hold faith in no gods, _he reminded himself again. Again and again and always again. _Will you call yourself a god and not a man?_

"Hush," she said. "I am sick unto death of this folly. Gods and men, men and gods, always circling back to the same points and the same arguments, like the snake that bites it's own tail." When he was weary of the world, when he would rather be alone with only his sad thoughts for company, he would retreat to the burnt shell of Summerhall. Even she, who knew him best, could not go there with him. And when he returned, he would always bring a song for the others but for her he would bring his questions.

_And yet, my answers never do please him, _she thought. _So why does he bring them to me? _

Presently, she asked him, "Will you not tell me about your dream?"

_Do I not always? _He slid his arms around her, resting his head against her shoulder. Spring-green silk and soft skin, fragrant with the lemongrass oils that she loved best.

"I dreamt-" It was hard to begin, but soon the words tumbled out as they always did in her presence. "I dreamt of a young maid in armour, mail and plate, so fierce that no man might withstand her. Fair was she to look upon, but the price of her smile was a river that ran red with blood. And I dreamt that same maid on a bed of rose petals, black with death and red with blood, but she had been mauled and ripped open by a dragon."

"Rhaenys?" Elia asked quietly. Her first thought was for their daughter.

"What?"

"Could it have been Rhaenys?"

"I... think not," he said slowly. Though he had to acknowledge that she might have the right of it - she often had. "Though it might have been - the maid was comely." He smiled at her and added, "Rhaenys will have her mother's beauty in time."

"Your mother thinks not. She thinks Rhaenys too dark, her colouring smacks too much of Dorne," she said dryly. "How she mourns that she was never able to present you with a sister, a sister who could have borne you daughters as golden as the sun."

He pinched her cheek. "No sister could bring me greater happiness than you have," he said.

She was silent for a while but when she spoke her voice was sad. "It is not happiness you need," she said gently. "You could do well enough about happiness."

"Yes, but it's rather a comfortable thing once you get used to it." _As I have, since I first saw you. _It was strange, how sharp and clean the line that separated his life before and since his marriage was._ A lifetime, _he thought. _What would have become of me if you had never taught me, sweetling?_

"You _could_ do with a few other children, though."

_The dragon must have three heads._ He did not attempt to deny it, but he tried to soften the blow for her. "They will come... in time. We are young." Laughing, light-footed Elia would always be young, but he - had he ever been young? _I must have been, _he thought. _But I cannot remember how it was, more's the pity. _

"You are young," Elia retorted. "Not me." There was something in her voice that made him sit up straighter.

"You have seen a maester?"

She buried her head in the crock of his neck in answer.

_I should have expected this, _he thought as cold dread gripped his heart. _If I were the god I believed myself to be, I would have seen this. _He kept his voice neutral as he asked her, "And he said?"

She gave a bitter laugh. "Oh something you've seen in your scrolls, black with prophecy, or in your dreams, no doubt. You do not need me to tell you."

"I would hear it from your lips."

Her voice was muffled as she answered. "By his chain he promised me that the next child I bear will be my last." _And no doubt the Queen and Cersei Lannister will be the first ones to rejoice. _

_The dragon must have three heads. _"I see," he said steadily.

"You see everything," she said bitterly.

"Almost," he agreed. "But not quite." _And perhaps that is a blessing - if I had seen that you could not bear me the children I needed, I would not have taken you to wife. And if I had not taken you to wife I should never have known you._ He rose abruptly and threw open the shutters. It seemed to have grown darker, though it was near time for the sun to rise. _It is only my imagination, _he thought. Elia groaned and buried her head under the pillows for there was a chill in the air. He loved early mornings. She hated them.

"I shall question him again," he announced, though he knew it would do no good. Elia had always been fragile and Rhaenys' birth, though it had been a year ago, had sapped her strength. Indeed, the Lannisters seemed to be dividing their time between stalking his poor brother and his poor wife - a Viserys or a Rhaegar? That was the question.

_And poison the answer, no doubt, in sweet Lady Cersei's mind. _

She'd lifted her head from the pillows. "You'd do better to spend your time hunting for a wife."

"Elia, sweetling," he said, thinking at first that she was wroth. Upset. _In her place, I would be, too. _

"Sweetling," she replied dryly. "Sweetling, your sweet wife is not wroth. She is trying to be wise as her good husband taught her to be." She climbed out of bed and once again he was struck by how thin and weak she seemed. _She seemed so much stronger last night, _he thought. _When we were-_

He put his arm around her shoulders as she crossed the room, her bedrobe flapping about her, to stand by him at the windows. "Aegon the Conqueror took both his sisters to wife. Two wives," she said. "Why should you not?"

"I-" he was at a loss for words. _Why not? _a part of him whispered. _She has the right of it. She will bear you no more trueborn children but there are other women. _"It would be an insult to you," was all he could come up with. "A transgression to our marital bond."

"I suggested it to you first," she reminded him. "I think I'll survive."

"The Faith would never stand for it." _Polygamy is but another adultery in their eyes. _

"They stood it from Aegon."

"Aegon had dragons. Not even a septon is stupid enough to argue with dragons."

"The Faith would rather stand Good King Rhaegar and his gentle queens and their messianic children than an avalanche of white walkers," she said companionably. "The dragon must have three heads, remember?"

He had to smile at that. "Have you a gentle queen in mind for me, my lady?"

"Not yet, no," she said. "But I was considering-"

"Not Cersei Lannister," he pleaded. _Though it would please mother to no end. Daughters as golden as the sun. _

"Would you like Ashara Dayne any better?" she teased him. Ashara was one of her ladies-in-waiting, as Cersei was. "The blood of Old Valyria - she is almost a sister to you in her looks, though her hair is dark."

"Arthur's sister?" he asked, bewildered. "She's a child."

"Five and ten," Elia reminded him. "Hardly a child."

"A child," he said dismissively. He squeezed her waist. "I have grown too used to a woman to bed a little girl."

She began to laugh but suddenly she stopped abruptly. "Rhaegar, you fool!" she cried. "Gods, but you are a fool." She grabbed his shoulder and forced him to bend down to her height. It was a good height to bend down to - he was tall and Elia was... well she was not a dwarf at least. "Your dream!" she said. "The young maid!"

In a flash, he saw it as she had seen it. "Mauled and slit open by a dragon," he said slowly. "Yes... but she was... armoured too. Young maids in armour will be hard to come across."

"It need hardly mean a knight's armour," she said dismissively. "It might mean a young maid with warrior's blood or one who bears a warrior's burden."

He thought about it. "The women of the hill clans?" he suggested. "They are said to fight as fiercely as their men."

"She might not be of the Seven Kingdoms," Elia said. "Think of the wildling women beyond the Wall. Or... in Essos and Sothoryos there are women who are fabled as warriors as the Rhoynish queens were, in Meeren such slaves."

Somehow he was not convinced. "She will be a woman of Westeros," he said. "I feel certain of that much." _And yet, _a sly voice whispered, _once you were quite as certain that you were the Prince who was Promised. _

Elia bit her lip and thought about it. "The ironborn?" she asked. "In the old ages, their mothers rowed longships alongside their fathers."

"The Dornish?" he suggested. "You will know them better than I. Perhaps some high house that can claim descent from the warriors of Rhoyne?"

"I shall see about it," she promised. _And Nymeria, the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, brought her ten thousand ships to land in Dorne ... _it had been her favourite story as a child, though the gods knew that she was hardly fashioned to be a warrior. _I was fashioned to be a nothing, _she thought bitterly. _I am not even woman enough to give you the children you need. _

As though he could sense her gloom, he slipped his arm around her shoulders. "Smile," he said. "It- Elia, look." But he needn't have told her, because she had already seen it, she would have been blind not to see..._ Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight, blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay..._

The comet streaked through the sky, like a splash of blood, blossoming like some strange, poisonous flower in the darkness, hot and bright as dragonflame. _Fire and blood, _she thought as she shielded her eyes. _Gods above, what does it mean? _

"Rhaegar-" she whispered, as his grip on her shoulders tightened. _  
><em>

His voice was curiously hollow as he whispered the words of the prophecy that had marked his life. "When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone."

* * *

><p><em>It saddened Cressen to remember that letter. No one had ever taught Stannis how to laugh, least of all the boy<em>_ Patchface. The storm came up suddenly, howling, and Shipbreaker Bay proved the truth of its name. The lord's__ two-masted galley Windproud broke up within sight of his castle. From its parapets his two eldest sons had__ watched as their father's ship was smashed against the rocks and swallowed by the waters. A hundred oarsmen__ and sailors went down with Lord Steffon Baratheon and his lady wife, and for days thereafter every tide left a__ fresh crop of swollen corpses on the strand below Storm's End. _

**A Clash of Kings**

* * *

><p><em>She seems to come from everywhere,<em>  
><em>Welcome to the dragon's lair.<em>  
><em>Fingers running through your hair,<em>  
><em>She asks you out to play...<em>

_In all of nature's sorcery,_  
><em>The most bewitching entity.<em>  
><em>Hell can have no fury,<em>  
><em>Like the rising of the storm... <em>

**The Storm - Blackmore's Night**

* * *

><p>She'd worn a gown green as wildfire to supper, a green that had reminded him of proud Jaime Lannister's eyes for a moment. In her waist-length hair, she'd bound loops of copper bells in the fashion of the Free Cities. When he'd commented on the strange contrast between the wools of Westeros and the bells of Norvos, she'd only laughed and said that the Old Gods had made her do it.<p>

Brandon and Benjen had burst into laughter then, and even her father and Ned had given tolerant smiles. If Lyanna's words were to be believed, the Old Gods took a particular interest in her and often made her do the strangest of things. Like the time she'd knocked Ned off his horse or set the hounds on Lady Elanor Dustin who'd come a-visiting or had almost cut herself in two playing with her father's greatsword, Ice... All for a higher purpose, of course.

When he'd asked her if the Old Gods had made her burn Catelyn Tully's hair she'd only given him a dirty look and said that no, that had only been her mistaking their signs.

She'd slipped away from the light and the laughter of the dining cabin as soon as she possibly could, though. She'd slipped away to the darkness and the quiet of the ship's deck, to lean against the ship's rails and drink in the sea with hungry eyes.

_In the Father's name isn't she tired of it, yet? _he wondered as he followed her. _She's spent all day at the rails. _

But he could understand her fascination. This was the first time she'd ever been on a ship, the first time she'd ever seen the sea. He'd been the same way the first time he'd ever seen snow - he'd been ten and new to winters in the Vale and the cold of the high mountains and the fluffy, feathery whiteness that burnt like fire when he touched it.

It's just snow, Ned had told him, laughing as he'd licked a snowflake. Ned was of the north and snow and ice were as common to him as storm and sea to Robert.

It's_ beautiful, _he'd whispered, in awe.

Now it is, Ned had said. When it's just these baby eddies, it's pretty enough. But you've never been through a real blizzard, have you? It's a monster, I tell you... your stupid little storms are nothing compared to that.

He'd taken that as a challenge of course - he'd been hot-headed as a child, quick to find insult, touchy of his pride - and a magnificent snow-fight had followed... after which they'd gotten lost in a blizzard, been chased by a bear, climbed a tree, played dead, nearly frozen to death... and emerged the best of friends at the end of it all. And a year later, when none of the others had dared approach him, it had been Ned who'd held his hand and whispered, I'm sorry. You were right. A blizzard's nothing... nothing...

She smiled up at him when she noticed him. He loved the way she smiled. There were many who might not call her truly beautiful, she had too much of Ned in her for that. They would scoff at her long face and her sharp features, her body slender and hard as a whip, her skin too pale for her dark hair... but he loved her smiles and her laughter-brimmed eyes. _And perhaps, _he thought_, because she is Ned's sister. _

She was humming when he sidled up to her. The Queen o' Catskins it was. _And if I'd a gown of velvet soft, I'd will it the colour of a starlit night. _Jon had stitched proverbs in every sentence. Lyanna stitched scraps of songs.

"It's so pretty," she began at once. "Ned said it would be, but I thought he was teasing. I didn't think it would be so pretty."

"Pretty enough now," he agreed. "When she's in the mood to be charming, she'll charm you."

_"She," his father corrected him. "Not 'it'. She."_

_"Why is it a 'she'?" he'd demanded. He'd been five, old to the shore and the salt-sweetness of the sea when it was in the mood to play. But he was new to ships and sailing and the wild ways of the sea. _

_Steffon Baratheon ruffled his hair. "Because she's a woman," he'd said, laughing. "Changeable. Contradictory. A crueler mistress you'll never have, boy."_

_"Aye," Black Tom, the first mate on _Sweet Cassana_ had shouted. "But a fairer maid you'll never ride neither." _

He'd been five then. He'd believed them.

"And when she's not?" she teased him. "What will she do to me when she feels foul?"

"That's an answer best not given."

She laughed. "So serious," she said. "So very serious. I never knew you had it in you to be so serious."

"I am an ocean unto myself."

He would have preferred to stand in silence, to sniff salt as the old tars called it, but she had to begin again. She was a northwoman and she knew nothing of the sea she found so enchanting. "It's just _so_ pretty. Now I know how the ironborn feel like when they set sail in their longships," she said dreamily. Somehow he doubted it. The ironborn only set sail to pillage and plunder. "I feel like there's salt and tar in my blood. Or... storms and sea, like in yours."

_No doubt you feel like a bird too. _

"I feel like a bird," she announced. "So wild, so free, so- _what_?" she demanded indignantly when he shook his head.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "I only wished that I might feel the same way."

"You should," she said. "Just look at the way the moonlight dances off the water, how silky it looks!" _And if I'd a gown of gossamar fine, I'd will it the colour of a moonlit night. _"And the stars too, look how they shine! They seem _colder _at Winterfell, but here they seem so much nearer, so much friendlier." She sighed dreamily. "It's just so-"

"-Pretty," he supplied. She punched his arm, as she would her brother's. "There's a tale to it, if you'd like to hear... why I hardly feel the same way as you." There's always a tale, Lord Jon had said. And a tale behind it and a tale behind that one too, and they're all laced together.

"A sad one?" she asked hopefully. When he nodded, she gave an exaggerated squeal and said, "All the more reason for you to tell me. A man must have no secrets from his betrothed."

_You'd sniff them out like a bloodhound if I kept any secrets from you. _He knew that she'd already heard of Mya - gossip from the stables, to be sure. Ned said she had taken it rather hard. _Bless me, I wonder why?_

Lyanna tapped his shoulder. "My story," she demanded like a child.

He leaned against the rails and looked down into her face. Six years ago, he'd looked down into a face much like her own and told her brother the story. It had hurt then. It hardly hurt now, the ache of it had worn off over the years like a pebble rubbed smooth by a riverbed.

"You know I was eight when I was first sent to the Vale," he said slowly. "Ned used to go back to Winterfell for visits often but Storm's End was much further off so I never went back there. And then... King Aerys gave my father a task - to seek a bride for Prince Rhaegar in the Free Cities." _There's always trouble when there aren't enough daughters for the Targaryens to mate with. If only Queen Rhaella had borne a daughter. If only I had a sister. _"They were gone two years though they did send us presents from time to time... ponies and miniature warhammers and the last year, a babe on his wet nurse's breast."

"Your little brother Renly," Lyanna said, remembering. "Was he truly born on a ship, in the midst of a storm?"

"No - that was only Ned's imagination," he told her. The wind brushed the bells in her hair, they rang like the laughter of fairies. "He was born in Norvos. Well, King Aerys was hard to please and he'd have none of the maidens Father had looked up for him, so two years after they'd first started, they sent word that they were coming back. I left for Storm's End and I reached a week before they were to arrive." He paused and thought about it. "I was ten and it was late in summer then or... autumn it might have been. No matter. It was the season of storms."

"Nothing ever could contain, the rising of the storm," she began to warble. She stopped when he stared at her. "I know, I know, I can't carry the tune," she said sheepishly. "It's a tricky one."

He shook his head. "Not that," he said. "Not... ah, where was I? Oh yes. Well, Stannis was nine and a more pig-headed gargoryle you'll never meet. We get along like fire and ice."

"Lovely," she said, smiling. "I'm sure you tore the castle down."

"Close enough," he admitted. "I bashed his head against the wall and he poured scalding soup over me. Maester Cressen told us that if we were naughty, the gods would punish us." _And they did. _"Well, the day they were to come it was as clear as brook-water and I had done no more than knock Stannis out cold a few times and he'd done no more than throw my precious little hammer into the sea."

"Sweet as roses, both of you."

"Yes... and then they dressed us up prettily and we took up posts at the parapets so we would be the first to see them." _How I missed them. I hadn't seen them since I was eight. _"It was a fine day, all sunshine, no trace of clouds in the sky and Maester Cressen said he'd never seen a fairer autumn day." _And Black Tom looked grave and said a blacker day would have suited better. _"And then- and then it got dark." He turned his face away from hers abruptly. "The storm, it just came up like a- like one of your northern blizzards. One moment, all was clear and the next-"

"-It was horrid," she said, nodding. "I know what you mean."

"-Yes, winds lashing and trees snapping-" _And I was frightened but I pretended to be brave for Stannis. _"Like the- like the storms the kings of eld battled." _The kings who took mermaids to wife, the kings who snatched lightening from the sky and had voices that rolled like thunder. And then Aegon the Conqueror came and they found that lightening and thunder were slaves to dragonflame. _"And there was a ship-"

Suddenly, she seemed to realize where this was going. "Robert-" she said gently, her fingers brushing against his arm. "Robert, you don't need to-"

But he couldn't stop. "A two-masted galley. Father had taught me to recognize all his ships when I was a child. And Maester Cressen begged us to go down but I wouldn't, I kicked him when he tried to take me and Stannis cried-" _For the first and the last time. _"-But we stood there, we'd sworn we'd be the first to greet them and we were, we were." _The first and the last._ "Shipbreaker Bay, they called it and it proved how it got it's name that day, while we watched from above." _And the corpses came up with the tide, and there was naught to say which was the Lord of Storm's End and which was just another scurvy dog. In death, they were all the same.  
><em>

"Oh Robert," she said and he could tell her eyes were filled with tears. Her voice was choked and awkwardly, she held his hand and began to pat it. _Sweet girl, _he thought vaguely. _Just like Ned. _Ned had held his hand too.

Carefully, he slid his arm around her waist. She stood stiff as a lance in his arms. Clearly uncomfortable, but clearly uncertain as to how to throw him off.

_A snow-white maid, _he thought. _Gods bless her, she's probably never even stolen a kiss before. _But he liked that about her - there was something very beautiful about her innocence. Mya's mother had been a maiden too when he'd first had her, sweet and shy as spring.

"I think-" she said uncertainly, but he'd already bent over and begun to-

"No!" she snapped and shoved him back so hard that he actually reeled back. "No, Robert, not here, not now-"

_Gods, she's as strong as a bull, _he thought, taking a step back. "Then where?" he said, and he was surprised to hear how ragged his voice sounded, how breathless.

In the faint, flickering light, he could just see the curve of her cheek, her smile. "Why anywhere you want," she said sweetly. "As soon as you can catch me." And with that, she bolted.

* * *

><p>He found out that she was as fast on two legs as she was on four. When he'd finally caught up with her, gasping for breath, she'd slipped into the cabin where her brothers were playing at draughts. She'd taken a seat next to Ned, though there was an empty one next to Brandon. She smiled and blew him a kiss when she saw him - and Brandon glowered.<p>

Brothers_, _he thought ruefully, taking the seat next to Brandon.

"Mehanat Ritulyet ," Ned said suddenly.

"Bless you," Robert said very politely.

Lyanna giggled. "That's what he'll name his firstborn," she said, pointing to Brandon. "We were talking about names-"

"A most distinguished name," Brandon said, with ponderous dignity, though there was a twinkle in his eye. "A name that holds much meaning in Asshai-by-the-Shadow, a name for a warrior and a leader-"

Robert winced.

"Well, what would _you _name your child?" Brandon asked, sounding aggrieved. "Here I offer you a perfectly fine name-"

"Joffrey," Lyanna said decisively. "For Joffrey Sweetsong, he was Good King Daeron's White Knight. I've always liked that name. And an... Edric too, perhaps. It sounds so pretty. What d'you say?" she asked, turning to Robert.

Robert, who named his horses after the colours of their coats and numbered his hounds instead of naming them, opined that he would be content with anything that was not a Mehanat Ritulyet. Benjen, who was eleven and impressionable wanted to name his sons after the great heroes he'd heard of - Aemon the Dragonknight, Arthur the Sword of the Morning, Barristan the Bold, Duncan the Tall, Gerold the White Bull... Ned would stick to tradition, but that was Ned, of course. There would be a Brandon in his brood, perhaps a Rickard or any variation thereof, a Torrhen, a little Eddard...

Brandon sniffed and called him an old stick in the mud.

"And if it's a girl?" Robert wanted to know. He was thinking of Mya, chubby-cheeked little Mya. Becca, with those sweet big eyes of hers that you could drown in had asked him to come up with a name. _Since you're a lord, _she'd suggested hopefully. _Maybe you can think of something nice and fine for her, something out of a... a book, say?_ After he'd suggested Barra or Roberta, she'd given up on him in disgust. _She picked a fine name by herself after all, _he thought. _Mya, a sweet name for my sweet child. _

The Starks were at a loss.

"Nymeria," Benjen said promptly. "She was a Warrior Queen." He made a face at his sister. "I'll let _my _daughters fight and they'll be the greatest knights in the world, just after their brothers-" Lyanna swatted him as she would a fly.

"I never thought of a name for a girl," Lyanna confessed, looking sheepish. "Though Nymeria might suit." She sounded doubtful. "I like the story but not the name."

"Or Daena," Brandon suggested. "For Daena the Defiant."

"It's a Targaryen name," Lyanna protested.

"And it's a half-Targaryen you'll be wedding," he teased her, glancing at Robert.

_Three boys for one girl, _Robert thought. _No wonder they're slow to pick out names for their daughters. _Lord Rickard had promised him a nurseryful of sons when he'd given him his daughter's hand. _I'd be content with a baker's dozen of daughters if they were hers, _he thought suddenly. He felt most magnamious. _And I'd never blame her for it, either. _

"What's this?" a falsely jovial voice called out from behind him. "Picking names are we? Rather... premature, wouldn't you say?"

"It's never too early to be prepared," Ned told his father dryly. "Brandon here was planning on naming his firstborn Mehanat Ritulyet until we dissauded him."

"We _didn't_ dissaude him," Lyanna reminded him. "I pity poor Catelyn Tully. She'll have her work cut out for her."

"You hardly need worry," her father told her. "At the earliest, it'll be a good two years before she needs fret about naming her little ones. And you, sweet daughter, it will be even longer for you."

"Oh yes," Lyanna said quickly. "Years and years and then some more." Behind her father's back, she winked at Robert.

"Well," Lord Rickard said. "That is one point we are agreed on." After a few moments' awkward silence, he announced, "The hour is late. You ought to be abed, Lyanna."

"If I should, so should Ben," she protested. "He's littler."

"Benjen-"

"Make Brandon go," Benjen said sulkily. "He's the biggest."

"Brandon-"

Brandon looked like he was on the verge of making his father send Ned off to bed, but then he thought better of it and laughed. "Truce," he said, throwing up his hands. "I shall be glad to go to bed. I hope to see sweet dreams of my sweet Catelyn-" He flashed a smile at his sister.

"-And your sweet Mehanat Ritulyet," she said pertly. "Well, so long as it is not me in your dreams, I wish you a pleasant night, brother dear." There was something odd about the way that she said it, a sharpness, an anger, that made Robert turn to Ned.

"What-?" he began as soon as Lord Rickard had left with the others.

Ned shook his head, frowning. "I don't know," he said softly. "I don't know."

* * *

><p><em>Jaime took a swallow, wiped his mouth. "No doubt Ned wished to spare you. His sweet young bride, if not<em>_ quite a maiden. Well, you wanted truth. Ask me. We made a bargain, I can deny you nothing. Ask."_

_"Dead is dead." _I do not want to know this.

_"Brandon was different from his brother, wasn't he? He had blood in his veins instead of cold water. More like__ me."_

_"Brandon was nothing like you."_

_"If you say so. You and he were to wed."_

_"He was on his way to Riverrun when..." Strange, how telling it still made her throat grow tight, after all these__ years. "...when he heard about Lyanna, and went to King's Landing instead. It was a rash thing to do." She__ remembered how her own father had raged when the news had been brought to Riverrun. The gallant fool, was__ what he called Brandon._

**A Clash of Kings**

* * *

><p>She crept out of the shadows as stealthily as a boar on the rampage. He sighed and called out to her, "Shouldn't you be abed, little sister?"<p>

Her voice was indignant as she slipped over to him. "How did you know it was me?"

"Lyanna, sweetling, I've tracked _armies_ that were more inconspicuous than you." It was true too - Lord Jon had often made them enact mock battles to sharpen their skills. Ned had captained and led a fair few armies to victory in his time but Robert had been the one who was truly invincible - or as close as you could get to that. If he could curb his rashness and temper his chivalry, he had the makings of a fine commander.

"I'll improve," she said easily as she sat down next to him.

"You don't need to improve," he pointed out. "It's absurd for you to improve because- what?" he asked, annoyed, as she began to tug at his arm.

"Hug me," she demanded. "It's cold here. Brrrrrrr-" she added, for effect.

"Go back to bed then," he said, but still he lifted his arm obligingly and put it around her shoulders. "Or... fetch a shawl at the least."

"If I run back to fetch a shawl you'd_ leave_," she complained. "And I want to sit here and talk with you!"

"You can always talk with me," he said mildly.

"Yes," she agreed. "But not in the dark."

"Why does it need to be dark?" he asked, amused.

He felt her shrug as she said, "I don't know but it's... friendlier, don't you think? When it's dark and you can't see anyone else's face so you can say what you want and- I'm babbling, aren't I?"

He nodded. "Late nights never agreed with you. You'll be too tired to ride to Riverrun tomorrow morning if you stay up for long."

She giggled. "I'm _never _too tired to ride."

_Well, that's true enough. _

"And I can always catch up on sleep at Riverrun," she said. "It'll be all to the good if I'm asleep half the time, at Riverrun."

"It would make things more peaceful," he agreed. She was still shivering slightly, so he rubbed her back. "Was that why you left your warm bed for the cold deck? In the name of peace?"

"No," she said. "I just wanted to look at the sea again. One last time, in the night." Her voice turned sheepish. "I wonder when I'll ride a ship again. It's just so-"

"-Pretty," he supplied. She punched his arm. "I hear they ride ships as often as they do horses at Storm's End. You might like that."

"I might," she agreed. "Robert say it's beautiful there. But then he says I'm beautiful too, so I don't know how much to trust him."

He laughed.

"And I found the perfect name for my daughter," she said as proudly as though she actually had a daughter to name. "It's beautiful. There was a minstrel playing at the Manderlys' tourney and he played 'Flowers of Spring' for us and-"

"Trust you to find a name in a song."

"-Yes, trust me, and there was a lady in the song was named Sansa. So there," she said. "My first daughter's going to be named Sansa. How do you like it?"

"Pretty," he said and meant it. "If you tire of the name, I could find a use for it."

"You can't use my name!" she protested.

"Watch me," he said dryly. "If I have a daughter before you do I'll be sure to name her Sansa if only to spite you."

She giggled and then said, "Why are you still up, Ned?"

He thought about it. "Perhaps the same reason as you," he said. "I like the quiet, I like the dark. The stars, too. Quiet was always hard to come by at the Eyrie." He'd craved the stillness of the godswood then but there were no godswoods, such as northmen kept, in the Eyrie, only a garden ringed by white towers. No heart-trees to kneel before, no weirwoods to look up to. "And you, little sister? You've given me two reasons, good ones, both of them but what's the third?"

"I wanted to talk to you." She drew out the words slowly, carefully as though they were golden dragons that she was drawing from the chest of her heart. "I thought it might be easier in the dark."

He sensed that she was on the verge of a confession. That should be interesting. "You've done something stupid," he said resignedly. "Again."

He'd expected her to shoot back a sharp answer of her but all she said was a meek, "Yes."

She was shivering now - perhaps from the cold, perhaps from fear. Gently, he rubbed her arms. "Well never mind how stupid," he said. "You can tell me you know, and I won't think any the worse of you even if you've gone and burnt down some poor holdfast to the ground." He had meant to sound reassuring. When she kept her silence, he asked her suspiciously, "Lyanna, _have _you burnt down a-"

"Of course not!" she said indignantly. "I've done something worse!"

Well. That was comforting.

"Remember two days again, when we were riding and I told you I wasn't a maiden and then you chased me and you lost because you always lose?"

_Not always. _"I remember."

"Well... I lied. I still am, you know. A maiden, I mean."

"I'm sure Robert will be delighted to know that." _And Father even more so. _

"But I- I kissed someone."

"Ah," he said, not at all surprised. "Kisses are only kisses." _Not like maidenheads. A broken maidenhead can mean anything from a bastard to a war for honour's sake. _

"Yes," she agreed. "But I kissed someone I shouldn't have. Shouldn't have, at all." She sounded horribly, hopelessly guilty.

"Most of us do, from time to time," he said amiably, though he never had. "I'm grateful that you didn't lose your head and let your kisses turn into something else."

"So am I," she said fervently. "But you don't understand, Ned - you don't even know _who _I kissed. It's the who that made it so wrong, so-" She rested her head against his shoulder and for a moment he thought she was going to cry. But she gathered herself quickly enough. Lyanna cried often enough to remind you that she was not a boy, but not often enough to remind you that she was a girl.

"Who was it?" he asked kindly. "Harwin? A travelling minstrel? One of Father's hedge-knights?" It did not much matter what she had done. She'd been little more than a child then, after all. _  
><em>

She only sniffled. "Promise you won't say anything?" she demanded.

"You know I won't."

"Promise that you won't _think _anything?"

"Lyanna," he said helplessly. "You can hardly prevent me from thinking."

"I wish I could," she said savagely. "I wish I could prevent you from talking and thinking and walking and riding and eating or doing _anything_, anything at all. I wish you were mine, all mine, to do whatever I wanted with, your heart and your mind and your damned soul-"

_"You're mine," eleven-year-old Lyanna hissed to Brandon. "I won't ever let that beastly Tully girl have you!"  
><em>

Her fingers dug into his arm painfully, like a cat's claws. He shook her off impatiently. "Who was it you kissed?" he asked, a deep dread sinking into his heart. When she did not say a word, he actually shook her. "Lyanna, who was it?" he snapped, already fearing the worst.

Her voice was very small as she answered. "Brandon," she said and with a sob, she tore herself out of his grip and fled into the darkness.

* * *

><p><em>Lyanna had only been sixteen, a child-woman of surpassing loveliness. Ned had loved her with all his heart. Robert had loved her even more. She was to have been his bride.<em>

_"She was more beautiful than that," the king said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna's face, as if he could will her back to life. Finally he rose, made awkward by his weight. "Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?" His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. "She deserved more than darkness..."_

_"She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned said quietly. "This is her place."_

_"She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean."_

_"I was with her when she died," Ned reminded the king. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father."_

**Game of Thrones**

* * *

><p>Spring was in the air.<p>

From Crecent Port, it was a brief half-hour's ride down the Rose Road to Riverrun. The Rose Road snaked through the southron kingdoms, connecting the great towns and the high seats of the south - Oldtown, Lannisport, Storm's End, Highgarden... Old it was, older than the Conquest, but not so old as the white roads of the North which had once seen the giants riding on their mammoths. This was a road made for men, by men.

On either side of the road, there were fruit trees in blossom, their branches sweeping to the ground as daintily as ladies' skirts. The path was pink with soft petals, stirred by a balmy breeze. Scraps of the bright sky glinted through the chinks in the flower-and-leaf canopy. Songbirds flitted through the air and barefoot children slipped out of their cottages to have a look at the gay train that rode towards Riverrun.

"Legend has it that the King of the Stormlands had these trees set forth when the Rose Road was first built. It had been built to link the stormlands with the westerlands for the Storm King was to wed the golden daughter of the King of the Rock. And so the Storm King decreed that his young bride's eyes should fall only on all that was sweet and fair to see, as she rode forth from her father's lands to her husband's.

But alas, the princess was struck down untimely on her way and the fruit trees and flowers and songbirds that were to cheer her heart found for themselves a fitter purpose... she was laid to rest under one of these same trees for in the stormlands it is the custom to plant a fruit tree over a maiden's grave, to lay her to rest in a meadow or on a hill, to be warmed by the sun and washed clean by the rain..."

Lord Rickard turned to his daughter. She had chosen not to ride with her brothers today - he suspected a childish tiff for she had been unusually short with Brandon and Ned at breakfast. Ben had monopolized Robert entirely - they were discussing warhammers, a subject dear to Robert's heart - and so Lyanna was left alone with only her old father for company. She looked well today, in a gown as white as ice embroidered with scarlet weirwood leaves. Petals clung to her dark hair. He knew she wanted to look pretty - to outshine the Tullys. There was much pride in her, much vanity.

She stirred restlessly. "Will Robert do that for me?" she asked. "Bury me under a fruit tree...?"

"If you die a maiden, yes," he told her. Somehow he doubted that Robert would let her die a maiden. "Men who die in battle or women who die in childbed are set in great cedar coffins and sent out to the sea when it storms, to be taken where the waves will." All the Seven Kingdoms had different customs when it came to disposing of their dead - in the riverlands, the dead were set in paper boats at dawn, to be set ablaze by fire-kissed arrows. In the north, there were the great crypts under the castles, of course.

She made a face. "I'd like to be set to rest at Winterfell," she said wistfully. "Next to you and Brandon, when his time comes..." She broke off abruptly. She knew it would not happen. Once a woman was wed, she no longer belonged to her father's house, she was bound no longer by his customs. _It'll be Robert next to whom you'll lie till the dead rise at the end of the world,_ she reminded herself._ And it'll be as a Baratheon of the Stormlands that you'll die, not a Stark of the North._ That hurt.

She toyed with the sapphire rose in her hair and presently she asked him the question he knew she'd been dying to ask. "What did you think of the comet?" She'd been raised by servants all her life and the result was that she was as superstitious as a bogwoman. _Fresh mud cures warts. Touch wood for luck. Never drink milk on the night of the new moon._

"I thought it an unusually fine comet," he told her. "I remember seeing another one, three-and-twenty years ago, but it was nowhere near as fine."

"The comet that marked the Dragon Prince's birth, aye," said Hullen, Harwin's father, the horsemaster at Winterfell who now rode with them. "And the Tragedy of Summerhall."

Lyanna looked fascinated. "See!" she said triumphantly. "So they _are_ omens, harbringers of-"

"Death. Destruction." Lord Rickard ticked them off on his fingers. "War. Famine. Plague. The Long Winter. Anything else you might care to add?"

She dimpled at him. "You forgot to add the coming of the Chosen One," she suggested. "Prince Rhaegar - everyone says he's going to be the greatest king that ever was."

"All the more reason never to trust what the mob says. They said the same of his father," Rickard said sourly. He remembered seeing Prince Aerys at court for the first time when he was a squire of twelve - so tall and strong and handsome, with the quick wit and ready charm that won men's hearts. Baelor Breakspear brought back to life.

_And what's left of the golden prince? The one whose reign would welcome The Great Summer? King Scab, Aerys the Mad, that's who._

"They never said it of his great-grandfather though. Aegon the Unlikely, he was but he was one of the finest kings we've ever had."

"Aegon the Fifth," Lyanna said, remembering her lessons. "Called the Unlikely because he was the fourth son of a fourth son, never expected to reign." She flashed him a smile as though to say _see, I do study_. "He was still mad enough to burn himself down at Summerhall trying to hatch a dragon."

"Ah well, that was the old Targaryen madness about dragons. He was still a great king, for all of that."

"They've all a touch of madness in their blood, m'lady," Hullen said amiably. "That's what makes them _kings_. Kingsblood is different from your blood or mine, it's sacred, tis-"

"And yet it runs as red as yours or mine when it's spilled," Rickard said dryly.

"Careful, Father," Lyanna said, laughing. "That comes perilous close to treason." She began to hum 'A Thousand Eyes and One' for a while, before she said, "It's strange that we haven't seen a heart tree yet, isn't it? There's so very many trees down this road, you'd think they'd have a heart-tree or two but no... and yet, there were scores of them all down the White Knife."

"There's no heart trees in the south, m'lady," Hullen said, looking astounded at her ignorance. "The Andals cut them all down, all south of the Neck, when they put the Children of the Forest to the sword-"

"Not all," Rickard said quickly when his daughter's eyes widened in horror. "You'll find heart trees in the godswoods of the great castles still... but yes, there are precious few in the south. The Andals brought their Seven with them and burnt and cut down the heart trees, calling them false gods..."

"That's- that's monstrous!" Lyanna cried, looking revolted. To be sure, to her it would seem monstrous though a thousand years and more had passed since the Old Gods had been sacrificed in the name of the Seven in the south. She'd always been pious - come sleet or snow, there never passed a day but that she must brave it to the godswood to offer her prayers to the heart tree. She took after her mother in that way - even if in aught else. "What would the septons do if we burnt down their statues of the Seven, hmm? How'd they like it then?"

"Lyanna-" he began patiently, trying to explain it to her. "That was a different day and a different age entirely, when Faith ruled men's hearts in place of law and kings-"

But she was fourteen and she saw only the rough bark of the matter, she could not peel back the layers of meaning that hid the core. "She'll be like that too!" she said heatedly, and it was clear that his talk had stirred an old grievance, one that had festered for too long. "Cately Tully - didn't her father tell you she was most devout?"

"Dutiful," he corrected her. "He said she was as dutiful as she was comely."

"And I bet she'll think it her duty to chop up all our heart trees!"

"I'm sure you would be quite capable of chopping her up if she did so," he observed.

"And she'll want her children to be soft, snivelling Seven-worshippers!" she cried. "Brandon's children! The heirs to Winterfell! Seven-worshippers!"

Even Hullen looked distressed at that. "A southron bride-" he rumbled. Those were old words in the North, that he was about to utter - old words that bore a sting, a curse and a warning all at once. A southron bride brings the ways of the south with her. Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, had chosen to swear fealty to Aegon the Dragon rather than give battle. His mother had been a daughter of House Lannister, a Princess of the Westerlands with the blood of the Andals running in her veins.

"-Brings the bounty of a southron alliance," Lord Rickard finished coolly. "Hullen, if you would please ride ahead? I would speak to my daughter." When he'd set spurs to his horse obediently, Rickard turned to her. "That was ill-spoken, Lyanna."

She looked sulky. "Ill-spoken because it was true, every word of it."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

"I won't take them back," she said haughtily. "I'll stand by what I said. Catelyn Tully is-"

"-Is to be your brother's wife. And her sons will rule Winterfell and the North just as yours will rule the Stormlands and who knows what else."

She muttered something about 'false gods' and 'the land will rebel'.

He sighed. "I'd rather have a good lord even if he worshipped the Seven than a lord who knelt before the heart trees and flayed men alive for sport. The smallfolk feel the same way - what are gods to a man when the frost is hard on the ground and game scarce in the woods? Who is he to look to? The lord in the castle whose stout walls keep out the bears and the wolves, that's who. The lord with the storehouses full of grain, that's who. The warm hearth to keep the snarks and grumkins at bay and the maester who brews life. He'd druther have that from a godless man than the cold comfort of his own heart tree."

When she said nothing, he said gently, "Is that not so, daughter?"

"Smallfolk," she muttered in the same tone she might have said 'dirt'.

"Smallfolk," he agreed. "They till the land and reap the harvest and they're a sight more use to the world than a fine lady like you."

Singlemindedly, she caught hold of the one word that she could hold against him. "Oh yes," she agreed sweetly. "Fine ladies are no use in the world. But when I asked you to let me be more than just a fine lady, to let me wear a sword-"

She had had no mother to raise her. He'd always been indulgent with her, letting her run as wild as her brothers. Hullen taught her to ride, to ride harder than a man when she was just a slip of a girl. Jory, the captain of the guard, had taught her to bend the bow so well that she could shoot a bull's eye at two hundred paces. Farlen the kennelmaster, had taught her to hunt with the hounds and Rodrik, the master-at-arms, had taught her the dance of the staff and how to wear a dagger so that she might defend her honour when her menfolk were away.

When Benjen was six and Lyanna nine, Mikken the smith had taught them both how to forge a sword. In the north, it was the custom to teach a boy to shape steel before he was allowed to wear it - for only a man who knew his sword as well as a smith was worthy to wield it. But when the year had passed and it was decided that seven-year-old Ben was old enough to have his first lessons in swordsmanship, Lyanna had come to her father and begged to be taught as well.

He'd refused her, even after she'd begged and pleaded and wept and stormed and sworn she hated him. He'd never given her his reasons - he knew she would laugh them all away.

But there was a saying in the Old North, in the tongue of the First Men that only the giants and the wildlings beyond the wall still used. A woman might have her daggers and her dirks, she might be a spearwife and wield a staff but a sword was a man's weapon. The woman who bore a sword would never bear a child and on the day she first wore it the Old Gods would lay their curse on the house of her brothers.

He sighed. "That's... different," he said vaguely. She'd gnawed this particular bone to pieces.

"No," she snapped. "It's not. You've travelled so much, Father, I know you have. You've laughed in the face of the gods and said you don't believe in them when they're only the bindings a man has- oh yes, because you're just _so_ clever and _so_ learned, you won't be bowed by tradition, but when it comes to your own daughter-"

"Lyanna-"

But she wasn't finished. "You go by halves and that's what's worse!" she said fiercely. "You'd sell me to the south because you want a bloody alliance! You'd buy a southron mule for Brandon when it's not done, it's not done! We belong to the North and to the Old Gods- you have no right-"

"I have a father's right," he said with icy courtesy. "To betroth my children as I see fit. You are my daughter and a daughter belongs to her father before she is given to a husband. That is the way of the North as well."

She hooted with laughter. "Old Nan says the last time a King of the North married a southron princess she bore him a son so weak that he could not- would not stand before the Conqueror."

That was true enough. "Many kings fell to Aegon the Conqueror. King Torrhen was not the first. It is no shame-"

"It would not have happened if he had wed a proper woman of the North as he was meant to!" she said fiercely. "The Mormont women ride to battle. Bolton women have flayed as many skins as their men. Even Stark women have fought. _She_ weakened his blood and worshipped false gods and our gods saw fit to-"

"The gods see nothing," he said. "When you're older, you'll see."

"Gods help me, if I ever have to," she snapped. "I'd rather die young than see that!"

He sighed, exasperated. He should not have expected a girl of fourteen to see sense - she was as hot-headed as Brandon. _At least he fancies the pretty Tully chit, southron though she is, _he thought wearily._ It could have been worse - he might have refused her and taken up with Lord Ryswell's girl, the one he was so sweet on. The gods know, her father threw her hard enough at him._

"What would you have, Lyanna? The bounty of Storm's End, a place of honour and pride in the south or the cold comfort of a hard northern marriage? Would you rather have me give you to the Boltons or the Blackwoods? Or the Mormonts, perhaps, where no music rings in their high halls and bread is so dear that they beg their way through the world?"

_Springchild_, he thought._ Springchild, your mother would not have wanted that for you. She hated me, she hated her marriage, gods bless her, but her children were dearer to her than her heart's blood._

"I'd rather die a maid at Winterfell than be a queen at Storm's End or anywhere south of the Neck!" she snarled. The words spilled out of her in an incoherent torrent. "They cut down all the heart trees and put up false idols in their place. How can I live there? How can I live in the south, fair though it is, without Brandon and Benjen, without the snow and my blue roses?"

"Lyanna, child-" he said tenderly, wanting to comfort her, to sweeten the bitter taste that duty left in her mouth.

But she'd set spurs to her horse and was riding hard towards her brothers. It was useless to stop her and call her back - she'd be seething.

_Springchild_, he thought dully. _As stubborn as a mule, as stubborn as Alianne was, and Brandon. But she'll grow out of it, she's a child, nothing more. She'll grow out of it._

He hoped.

**A/N: Long chapter :) Thank you for all the motivating reviews! I enjoyed writing the section with Rhaegar the most... what did you think of it? Also, I know in canon that Catelyn didn't meet Ned until the wedding and that Robert must have been a little older when his parents died (and in canon it doesn't seem to have affected him even a little!) but I'm changing that detail for this fanfic.  
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**Moneypenny: Well... she was 16 when she died and the tourney at Harrenhal occurred a year or two before... so that makes her roughly 14. Though everyone does seem to be 3 years younger than they should be in ASOIAF.**

**Oblivion: Well, I tried polishing this chapter up as much as I could - pretty hard because it turned out so long! I hope you liked it.  
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	5. Brandon: Riverrun

_Jousting was three-quarters horsemanship, Jaime had always believed. Ser Loras rode superbly, and handled a lance as if he'd been born holding one... which no doubt accounted for his mother's pinched expression. He puts the point just where he means to put it, and seems to have the balance of a cat. Perhaps it was not such a fluke that he unhorsed me. _

**A Feast for Crows**

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><p>There'd been a time, he knew, years and years ago, when the solar at Winterfell was like the one he saw before him at Riverrun.<p>

He'd been a child of winter and it was the hoarfrost and the howl of the hungry winter storms that bled into his first memories. It had been in the solar that his lady mother would sit of an evening, sitting and sewing. Pinewood logs would blaze in the great hearth, she'd have nought but pinewood cut for her from the woodlot because she said it gave the sweetest scene.

The girls she'd fostered at Winterfell, Glovers and Karstarks and Lockes and the castellan's little daughters, would sit with her. He'd been only a little toddling thing and the women make much of him, feeding him sugar cones on the sly and pinching his cheeks after they'd coaxed him to sing. He'd learnt a great many songs off those girls in his mother's solar, songs that he'd sing to Lyanna when she was a babe in the cradle.

She'd had a way with the needle, Fat Posey who'd maided for Lady Alianne said and he remembered it well. _Look Brandon, _she'd say as he traced his fingers over the raised silk, over the squares of gay colour that she'd hang in the halls. _Look, this is sweet Jonquil and that's Florian, her fool. Did I ever tell you the story? I didn't? Oh well, it starts off like this..._ She had a way with words too. Lyanna'd taken after her in that, even if in aught else.

But then she'd died when he was nine. The tapestries had faded and frayed with no lady of the castle and her damsels to attend to them. The rosy-cheeked little girls who'd sit and sew with her had been scattered like autumn leaves, some leaving for their father's keeps, others for their husbands'. No pinewood fires blazed in the solar's hearth now, the place had been given unto the fleas and the rats for Lyanna had little liking for it, preferring the stables and the godswood and the glass gardens. Sometimes, perhaps once in a year, he'd make the long journey up the winding staircases, to sit in the weirwood chair she'd once sat in, to hum a song she'd once liked. But he was the only one.

"Lady Catelyn," he murmured, drawing her hand up to his lips. "Your solar is almost as charming as you, yourself."

He sounded like a drunken singer but the girl seemed to like it for she smiled and said, "I hope so, my lord, for I have been at much pains to see it so."

"Ooooh, look- draughts!" Lyanna squealed, interrupting her. She could never bear not being the centre of attention for too long. "Do lets play, I'm so sick of walking up and down this castle-"

Little Lysa stiffened but her sister laughed. "If it please you, my lady," she said mildly. "My lords?" she asked, turning to his brothers and Robert, who stood in the doorway. "If you will?" The Tullys had been taking them through Riverrun - the gardens and the godswood, the well-appointed apartments which overlooked the rivers, the slow Tumblestone and the swift Red Fork, and the sandstone-pillared halls. Truly Riverrun was fair to look upon but it was not Winterfell and for Lyanna there was no place but Winterfell.

What will she make of Storm's End? Brandon wondered. She likes the sea, but will it suffice in place of snow?

"The game of thrones," Petyr Baelish, Lord Hoster's ward and as dear as a brother to his children, drawled. He was a good-looking lad with green-grey eyes and a mouth made for laughing. Brandon had taken him for ten, Edmure's age, for they were of a height. But it had turned out that Petyr was five-and-ten, short in the legs but long in wit. "Do you play well, my lady?"

"Awfully," Lyanna confessed, drawing her chair up to the board. The others strolled in after her. Ned took a seat as far away as possible from Catelyn and Lysa - he would rather face a dragon than a damsel, Brandon knew - and Robert took one as near as he could to Lyanna. Lysa perched on the arm of Petyr's chair and Brandon followed Catelyn to the windows. "Father taught me some, but I never had much patience with it. You'll think me a fearful dunce, I know, for I'd rather ride a real horse than a carved one."

"Petyr's brilliant," Lysa informed her loftily. "He'll crush you."

"Lysa," Catelyn said sharply. "You must forgive my sister, Lady Lyanna. Her devotion to Littlefinger can be vexing at times."

"Littlefinger?" he asked quietly while Lyanna and Petyr began to set up the pieces - ivory armies and ebony armies on a board of coloured squares.

"Edmure coined that for him. You see, his father..."

He was only half-listening to her. Petyr Baelish's name mattered not a jot to him, but there was a thing called small talk'that had to be indulged in.

_She's grown into a beauty, _he thought as the sunset turned her red hair to flame and brought a flush to her creamy skin. His sister was pretty, but stately Catelyn, with the poise of a grown woman, was beautiful. Though Lyanna would skin him alive if he dared insinuate that.

"Your hair seems darker than the last time I saw you," he observed. Lysa, delicate and dimpled, and Catelyn were of the same height and could almost have passed for twins - though there was still much of the child in thirteen-year-old Lysa and more of the woman in Catelyn who managed her father's household. They shared the same deep blue eyes and the rich auburn hair but Lysa's was lighter, coppery.

"It grew back darker after it was cut," Catelyn said dryly. "After your sister burnt it."

"She is... less wild now," he lied. Lyanna wasn't any less wild, just better at hiding it. She hid under her pretty smiles and her sweet voice and her wide-eyed innocence but when she wasn't watched, it tended to break out.

Catelyn didn't look convinced but she was charitable enough to murmur the appropriate compliments to his sister's charm and beauty.

_She hides under an armour of courtesy, this one, just as Lyanna hides under her antics, _he thought. He knew that she found him pleasing to the eye, but that she was still wary of him.

He told her about the snows of Winterfell, about his sister's roses and this elicited only the correct responses about how she would love to see the northern snows and how gifted his sister must be. He asked her about the boating that could be had on the Tumblestone and slowly, she warmed up. She told him about her skiff, The Rabbit in the Moon and the story behind the name, how she'd almost drowned Edmure and Lysa when she'd taken them boating by the moonlight. She laughed, a sweet laugh that bubbled up like a spring in the desert, spontaneous and unexpected, when he whispered a bawdy joke in her ear and the chilly courtesy fled from her face, to be replaced by something warmer.

The servants had long since lit the candles and sit the fire to blazing in the hearth when they finally turned their attention to the others. Catelyn seemed distressed that she had forgotten herself long enough to ignore her guests - though they seemed to have done well enough without her inteference.

Lyanna had ignominiously lost to Petyr within five minutes. Robert and Ned had lost equally quickly but when they'd played amongst themselves, it turned out that Lyanna was the worst player of all. Robert had lost to Ned, though it had been a tough fight, and now Petyr and Lysa were playing. Already she had lasted longer than the others combined and Robert and Ned were on her side, though Lyanna supported Petyr for some queer reason of her own.

Perhaps for the sake of those bold eyes of his, he thought. A maiden's lure, those eyes.

Catelyn squinted at the board. "Defensive, Lysa? No one wins playing defensive. Attack and be done with it."

Lysa didn't even glance up. "The Dornish did," she said stiffly. "When the Young Dragon stormed Sunspear."

Catelyn smiled. "She's read the _Conquest of Dorne_ and she never lets anyone forget that."

"Heavy reading for a young lady," he observed. Lysa would be the bookish one in the Tully family, just as Ned was in his own family.

"She's always been the clever one. Petyr never bothered to teach either Edmure or me to play his little game of thrones because he thought us dunces. All his patience was reserved for my sweet sister," Catelyn said dryly. "She's become quite clever at it."

"Perhaps he ought to teach me too," Lyanna said, pouting. "It seems that I'm all brawn and no brain."

"That's me," Robert objected. "All brawn and no brain, Lord Jon said." He grinned as though he didn't mind that.

Lysa looked up. "You and Lady Lyanna seem ideally suited then," she observed pleasantly.

"Not in the slightest, child," Lyanna said disdainfully, though she was only a few months older than Lysa. "Fire and ice, that's what goes well together. Who'd want ice and ice or fire and fire?"

"The Starks for the first," Petyr said. "The Targaryens for the second. Fire and ice then, my lady - but who will be fire and who ice?"

Ned poked Lyanna. "Fire," he said cheerfully. "Now all you want is Ice to skewer your friends."

Lyanna giggled. "Father's sword," she explained to Catelyn and Lysa. "It's named Ice. I've always wanted a sword of my own." 'Wanted', Brandon thought, was an understatement.

Catelyn laughed. "Childish fancies," she said, because she did not understand. "When I was a child, I wanted a unicorn and how heartbroken I was when Father told me they were the stuff of dream and legend."

"Why is it," Lyanna complained, "that _boys _always seem to get what they wanted when they were children? Robert wanted a warhammer, Ned wanted to be a knight, Brandon wanted to be a flower of beauty-"

"Girls overreach themselves?" Ned suggested.

"Because they're stupid?" Robert suggested, grinning. "Swords and unicorns..."

Lysa muttered something that sounded like, "Speak for yourself." She turned back to the board and made a tsking sound. "Well, the dragon's here so I'll..." She toyed with a piece and then put it down firmly. Brandon knew little of the game - even Lyanna, who'd picked up a bit of it from Father, would have been able to beat him. It was different for Ned and Robert, Jon Arryn had taught them for a southron lord was taught to be as skilled in the small talk of the solar as in the ways of war. A northern heir like Brandon would be taught to focus chiefly on two things: war and winter.

"Checkmate," Petyr said quietly. He gave a sinister smile when Lysa's eyes widened in fury and she gave a half-muffled shriek.

Catelyn burst out laughing and even Petyr cracked a small smile. "You sly thing," Catelyn said. "You've been planning this all the way, oh Lysa, didn't you see it? It was in the way he moved-"

Lysa shoved the board away sullenly. She was a sour loser, it seemed. "I can't see everything he plots," she protested. "That's like keeping a thousand eyes and one open - like Bloodraven!" She glared at Petyr. "And you've been waiting to say 'Checkmate' in that horrid tone all this while, haven't you? You just _have _to be so dramatic!"

"That I do," Petyr admitted, with a smile.

"My hero," Lyanna said sweetly, scooping up the pieces and setting them on the chessboard again. "I knew you would win." She gave him her prettiest smile and he blew her a kiss. Brandon sighed, knowing that they were playacting for Robert's sake. _Payback for his daughter, _he guessed.

Robert rose to the bait. "A pity you won't find yourself so capable on the jousting field at Harrenhal," he said sharply. "Carved knights and carved dragons are all that you'll ever move."

Petyr gave him a small smile. "_Ever_ is a very long time," he observed. "I would not say 'ever'."

Catelyn steered the conversation into safer waters like the graceful and gracious hostess she was. A pity her skills would be wasted at Winterfell, where visitors were few and far between. "Lord Robert," she said, turning to him with a charming smile. Charming, but not captivating - she had the grace to remember that she was betrothed, unlike Lyanna. "Who do you think will take the field at Harrenhal?"

"Hard to say, my lady," he answered. "A tourney is always open to luck. A lady's favour, a chance word, a vow. There's nothing like a tourney to make the blood run hot."

"Perhaps it will be you," Catelyn suggested. "Or perhaps my own brave lord." She favoured him with a smile. She did not mention Ned - he was slighter than both the men and so far she had only seen the gentleness in him.

"If it were me," Robert said, turning to Lyanna. "I would crown my sweet bride the Queen of Love and Beauty."

"Betrothed," Lyanna reminded him. "Not bride yet." She made a face. "I think it's stupid - they shouldn't call it Queen of Love and Beauty if the champion's only going to crown his lady love. She might not even be the prettiest lady there."

"She might not," Ned agreed. "But she would be the fairest in his heart."

Lysa sighed. "That's so romantic," she said dreamily. "Just like what a minstrel might say." She turned her eyes on Ned and in response, he shifted closer to Lyanna.

_Well, _Brandon thought. _Here's another one who likes a minstrel better than she ought. Lyanna, Lysa - even their names sound alike. _

"Who would you crown, Ned?" Lyanna teased him. "Sweet Lady Lysa?"

Ned bowed to Lysa. "Your ladyship is fair to look upon," he said. "But my duty is to my own sister."

"Pity Edmure's not old enough to ride," Lysa said. "Lord Brandon will ride for you, Cat, won't he? But there's no one to ride for me."

"He will," Brandon confirmed. "He will ride for the fairest lady in the land, excepting even his own fair sister." He saw the glare Lyanna directed at him but he did not see the guarded way Petyr looked at him.

"Well," Lyanna said brutally, looking cross. "I haven't the faintest chance of the crown, even with my two gallant champions. Robert's an indifferent jouster, aren't you?"

Robert laughed and agreed at once. "I hope to shine in the melee," he said. "Though there will be no crown for you, even if I do."

"Who wouldn't shine in a melee with a bloody big warhammer?" Lyanna wanted to know. "How do you even _lift _the thing?" From the look on her face, Brandon knew that she must have tried to lift the warhammer - and failed spectacularly. It was a beastly great thing, Robert's favoured weapon. Ned claimed he needed both hands just to lift it and it was a strong man indeed who could hope to battle with it.

"Perhaps it will be Prince Rhaegar," Lysa said dreamily. The Tully girls had been to court the last year and like all the other girls in the Seven Kingdoms, they'd fallen in love with the Prince of Dragonstone at first sight. "Then he'll crown Princess Elia his Queen of Love and Beauty and that'll be just so lovely!"

"Is she pretty?" Lyanna asked curiously. "I heard she was a frail little thing and they don't expect her to live for very long."

"She'd just had a baby, then," Lysa said snidely. "Everyone's a frail little thing after that. Let's see how long the maesters say _you'll_ live after you have one."

Catelyn interceded before Lyanna could open her mouth. "She is more sweet than fair, quite slight of stature," she allowed. "She has the gentlest face I ever saw in a woman and such a soft, sweet voice - lovely like yours, Lady Lyanna. You do have a lovely voice."

Lyanna thanked her. She was used to receiving compliments on her voice.

"Prince Rhaegar dotes upon her," Lysa said. "They're so very much in love with eachother, just like the princes and princesses in the ballads are."

"How sweet," Petyr said.

"Better a quiet love of the hearth and the home than an all-consuming passion," Catelyn said. She smiled at her little sister's crestfallen face. "Prose is easier to live with than poetry, Lysa."

"I'd still rather have the poetry," Lyanna said, laughing. "And no, Robert, that does _not_ mean that you can write sonnets to my eyes - Ned told me how vile your verses can be."

_Does she think me prosaic? _Brandon thought, glancing at Catelyn. The notion sat ill with him - _Ned _was the prosaic one in the family, the one who did the counting and the cribbing and reminded Ben to put on his warm boots before he went out and told Lyanna not to suck her thumb. The mother hen, they called him. The meek one, the dull one, the one with chilled water running through his veins.

Brandon had always aspired to be something more.

"Anyone up for another game?" Petyr asked, leaning back. "Cat? Lord Brandon?"

"You would win," Lyanna said. "We fear you too much to play against you."

"You could play under me," Petyr suggested. When Robert's eyes widened in horror at the suggestion, he hastily rephrased it. "I mean - under my leadership. Double-paired draughts, haven't you played it before?"

Ned and Robert looked confused. "Petyr invented it," Lysa said proudly. "We play it all the time - me and Edmure on one side, Petyr and Cat on the other. It's more fun that way."

"They're proud men," Lyanna said dryly when the others declined. "But not me, my sweet lord, I'd love if you might teach me."

"But you play beautifully, my lady," he said, with a glance at Robert, who was slowly turning purple. It was clear that they had strayed far from the safety of draughts. "Badly taught perhaps, but you are quick enough to pick up a few moves by yourself. And that's the way it's best learnt, when there's time enough for it - by oneself."

"Petyr taught himself," Lysa bragged. "Petyr's so clever."

"And vain," Petyr said dryly. "Petyr is very vain and Lysa makes him worse."

"What is Lyanna then?" Lyanna asked, leaning forwards. "Petyr is very vain and Lysa makes him worse. What is Lyanna then?"

"Jealous and possessive," Petyr said promptly. "And Robert makes her worse."

"What is Robert?" Robert asked, joining the spirit of the game. He was an easy-tempered lad, he did not seem to hold grudges.

"Lustful," Petyr answered. "And every girl he passes makes him worse."

"What is this girl then?" Catelyn asked, laughing.

Petyr smiled at her. "Only dutiful and very, very beautiful. And each passing day makes her worse."

Lysa made a face. "That's _boring,_" she protested.

"But true," Catelyn said.

What is Brandon? he wondered and knew the answer before he even had to ask. Hot-tempered, he'll say, and so very bad that nothing can make him worse.

* * *

><p><em>"How would you know? Were you there?" Lysa descended from the high seat, her skirts swirling. "Did you come with Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood, the time they visited to lay their feud before my father? Lord Bracken's singer played for us, and Catelyn danced six dances with Petyr that night, six, I counted. When the lords began to argue my father took them up to his audience chamber, so there was no one to stop us drinking. Edmure got drunk, young as he was . . . and Petyr tried to kiss your mother, only she pushed him away. She<em>_ laughed at him. He looked so wounded I thought my heart would burst, and afterward he drank until he passed out at the table. Uncle Brynden carried him up to bed before my father could find him like that. But you remember none of it, do you?" She looked down angrily. "Do you?"_

_Is she drunk, or mad? "I was not born, my lady."_

_"You were not born. But I was, so do not presume to tell what is true. I know what is true. You kissed him!"_

_"He kissed me," Sansa insisted again. "I never wanted—"_

_"Be quiet, I haven't given you leave to speak. You enticed him, just as your mother did that night in Riverrun, with her smiles and her dancing. You think I could forget? That was the night I stole up to his bed to give him comfort. I bled, but it was the sweetest hurt. He told me he loved me then, but he called me Cat, just before he fell back to sleep. Even so, I stayed with him until the sky began to lighten. "_

**A Storm of Swords**

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><p>They were having a banquet in honour of the Starks, a <em>real<em> banquet for which she'd worn her prettiest silks and done her hair up like Cat's, because she was almost grown up. There were tumblers and jugglers and Bozo the Dwarf and Lucretia the Fool sparring on toy horses. Pip the Piper had come from his ivy cottage on the crags, to pipe the wild sweet tunes that the shepherds sung when the moon was low in the sky. Bozo had a monkey with him, a dear, little monkey on a gilded chain who'd danced for them and Lady Lyanna had called it 'adorable'. She'd never seen a monkey before, poor thing, she'd just been buried up in the north where it snowed all the time...

Cat hated the snow and the cold and Lysa wondered what Cat would feel like when she had to leave for Winterfell. It sounded so bleak and sad up there, with so few visitors and the _cold _though Lady Lyanna loved it... but Lady Lyanna was crazy. She'd burnt Cat's hair when she was seven and she'd spent the evening flirting with poor Petyr even though she had her own betrothed, a dimwitted giant of a man he was, to be sure, but he had beautiful muscles and weren't those muscles good enough for a northern girl? She had no right to cast her eyes on Petyr and there was poor Petyr, he had to be polite to the silly chit, what could he do? It wouldn't do to be rude to her, though she was most vexing...

But anyway, Lysa looked beautiful. Maybe even a tad more beautiful than Cat though no one had told her that, but she was sure. Her hair was lighter than Cat's, a brighter red, almost copper in the torchlight, but then it wasn't poor Cat's fault that her hair wasn't as pretty, crazy Lady Lyanna had burnt it the first time and it'd only grown darker after that.

And she was quite Cat's height and Brandon Stark had told Cat that she seemed a dainty, charming little thing. Well, she didn't care what Brandon Stark thought. He lived in dreadful old Winterfell in the north, right next to the Wall and the snarks and the grumkins, she was sure, cared about her but all the same it was nice to be admired. Even if it was by a lout. Oh, he was passably good-looking but nothing compared to Petyr, no one was, he was just so handsome with those lovely eyes of his, green and grey together and when he smiled...

He was smiling at her and she couldn't help but blush. He'd not said a word to her but she knew he thought her the most beautiful lady tonight, far prettier than the northern girl and even prettier than Cat. He hadn't said a word because it was just his way, the sly thing... but he must think her beautiful, he must! The most beautiful of them all tonight in her blue silk, that brought out the blue of her eyes. The northern girl wore silver and it suited her well enough, for she was pale and her eyes were grey, and Cat wore green, a rich, lovely green but it wasn't as pretty as her blue and Cat wasn't as pretty as her.

She was sitting next to the northern girl and Cat was on the other side on the northern girl and opposite them were Brandon, Robert, Eddard (that was the second brother and he was as meek as a mouse and he'd not said a word to her). Edmure and Benjen, the last brother, were talking, something about hunting whores and chasing boars, silly boys, boys could be so vexing at times, all boys but Petyr of course. But then he wasn't a boy, he was nearly a man grown and the handsomest and sweetest and cleverest in the world and one day Father would awaken to the right of it and marry her off to Petyr and then they'd ride on a white stallion, into the sunset.

Uncle Brynden was talking about horses with one of the smelly northern men who'd come with the Starks at the lower tables. He couldn't stand Father and the high talk of the high table, he often said. She felt Lady Lyanna's foot nudge hers under the table. "Your sister says 'talk'," she muttered. "And you'd better start talking or she won't stop poking me."

That was Cat who liked playing hostess, stupid of her since when she got to Winterfell there'd be no guests at all and then what would she do with her hostessing? Strange of Father to marry her to the north, but then that was Father and his stupid alliances... she hated hostessing and small talk, she'd rather play draughts with Petyr who played so cleverly and said so many clever things. But the way things stood, Father would probably marry her to a great lord after all and then she'd have to play hostess though she despised it, while poor Cat was freezing in the north and milking small Starks...

Lady Lyanna kicked her under the table.

"Yes peaches," she said quickly. "I do love peaches."

Eddard Stark gave her a strange look but Brandon smiled nicely at her. Perhaps he wouldn't be so bad for Cat after all. "So do I," he said amiably. "Though how your mind jumped from lances to peaches, I fail to understand."

Oh, so they were talking about Harrenhal again? It was vexing, most vexing, she was sick to death of it and now that there were boys at supper they'd only talk of Harrenhal and the stupid tourney and really, how dull it was! Petyr wasn't like that, Petyr was too clever and tactful and charming and graceful to ever bore a lady with things as dull as jousts. But Lady Lyanna didn't seem to have been bored at all. Cat was only talking for politeness' sake but Lady Lyanna seemed to like it, but perhaps that was the northern way, Lady Lyanna was just so wild, such a boy...

Well, she might need to be strong to withstand Lord Robert's embraces. He was such a bear of a man, she'd never have been able to endure it if Father had married her to him, she'd be frightened he'd crush her, he wasn't a bit like Petyr, Petyr so delicate and graceful and sweet and understanding and...

She moved her foot before Lady Lyanna could kick it again. Lady Lyanna kicked air and muttered a curse so low that only Cat and she could hear it.

"Jousting is three-quarters horsemanship," Lord Robert was saying officiously. Oaf. Bearman. "With your skill at riding, Lyanna, you'd be a natural at it. If you were a man."

Lady Lyanna smiled. "Perhaps I'd still be a dab hand at it," she said amiably. "I'm fairly strong."

"For a woman," Lord Robert said disdainfully.

"My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure," Lyanna sang, smiling.

Brandon was telling Cat about tourney lances, some nonsense about the wood they were made of and how strong they were and his sister listened intently. Jousting was so dull, how could she be interested? It wasn't ladylike at all, even Cat was only feigning enthusiasm...

"-Lances shattered when they hit, that was a good sign-"

"Does it hurt your arm?"

"Like the seven hells, my lady."

"And whenever we rode against Ser Gromer we called it flying lessons-"

"He was seven feet tall, he was, and to see him you'd say he was as wide across as he was tall, he'd pop you right out of the saddle-"

"And you'd go flying."

"I've always wanted to go flying," Lyanna said wistfully.

"Then you could try a bit of tilting with me, Lyanna," her betrothed said.

Lysa turned her attention to Edmure and Benjen Stark.

"I drank so much that night!" Edmure was bragging, and he was lucky that their lord father was too far away to hear, too engaged in conversation with Lord Stark. Politics, no doubt, they'd be talking about. Boys talked of riding, men of ruling. "Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken were with Father in his solar and I drank _nine _goblets, full, and it was only then that I began to feel a little sick-"

Liar. He'd passed out after six and thrown up, little fool. But Benjen Stark didn't know that and he looked wistful. "Father won't let me take but a sip," he said. "As though I'm a child when I'll soon be a man grown. My sister says I'm not to wear live steel for two years or before I outride her-"

"She's only a girl," Edmure said. "How can you not outride her?"

"You've never ridden with Lyanna," Benjen said with feeling. "Why even Lord Robert couldn't outride her!"

"_I_ could," Edmure bragged. "I'm not some craven who couldn't beat a woman."

Brat, if Lord Robert heard that, he'd have a few choice words with him. Perhaps she _should_ tell the high and mighty Lord Baratheon. Edmure could do with his nose being rubbed in the mud, he was too vain, too proud because he was the heir to Riverrun, it all went to his head like summerwine, not like Petyr who was so gentle and modest inspite of his cleverness and his charm... oh yes, he was only heir to the Fingers, only heir to sheep pellets and a few stones, he'd jest, but he was so clever, he'd go so far, she knew he would and Father would marry her to him one day...

"-But Littlefinger couldn't hold his drink as well as I, though I'm ten and he's fifteen-"

No, he couldn't hold his drink, true, but a man couldn't be perfect, could he? It was absurd to think so. And he'd been cut to the quick, Cat was cruel when she had a mind to be, flirting so scandalously and then denying him even a kiss, well she wasn't so clever, she was good and gracious and Petyr knew she was the more beautiful though everyone seemed to see only Cat, only because she thrust herself so... everyone called her Little Lysa, shy little Lysa though she was as tall as Cat and almost as old as Lady Lyanna, the crazy northern girl.

And really, she was more of a woman than both Cat and Lady Lyanna, because they were only maidens flowered while she was a maiden deflowered, though that was a great secret, she'd carry it to the grave with her. She didn't like to talk much, true, but she _was_ the cleverer one, the prettier one, only no one ever said so to her face...

Petyr loved her, she knew he did. He was looking at her, smiling too, he'd heard what Edmure had said about Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken's visit and she knew he remembered, he must, though he'd never said a word. Oh it was sweet of him, so sweet, she knew he only wanted to protect her, to cause her no shame, he was shy to admit it, but he loved her, she knew, and someday when she'd gathered the courage they would talk of that sweet night, that sweet, blissful, wild night which had been so perfect... well, almost perfect except for at the end when he'd called out Cat's name but he'd not been in his right senses then and she'd explain it to him and then they'd make love...

Oh dear, she was blushing. Eddard Stark was giving her an odd look, he must think her as crazy as she thought his sister. Well, he was crazy too, so quiet, so shy, but no, perhaps he was just like her... perhaps he was cleverer and prettier than Brandon though people only noticed his older brother first just as they noticed only Cat first, instead of her though she was much better, much, much...

She smiled at Eddard Stark because she felt like they were kindred spirits and now he blushed and looked away, poor sweet boy, sweet, yes, but of course nowhere near as sweet as Petyr, no one was...

Father had risen and suddenly quiet descended over the hall. Lord Robert's booming battle-cry voice silenced, Lady Lyanna's shrill laughter, Cat and Brandon's lovetalk, Edmure's braggart boasts...

Lord Rickard had risen too. Oh, it was time, was it? They were to announce the betrothal now, silly of them, everyone knew, there was no point announcing it, it would only make Cat and Brandon feel more embarrassed... Father had tried betrothing her to Jaime Lannister, that terrible boy with the shiny hair who'd spent the fortnight he'd been with them chasing Uncle Brynden up and down and wanting to know whether Maelys the Monstrous really had true heads and what kind of sword he favoured... she'd spent hours in the sept on her knees, in thankfulness, when he'd taken the white cloak for it showed that the gods were good and wanted her to marry Petyr, yes, Petyr, of course...

She turned to smile at him, but for some reason, he was not looking at her. He'd turned towards Father and there was a rigid look in his face, it looked strange but perhaps he was only trying to be respectful, he was such a good lad, so courteous and kind to everyone, not like Edmure or Father or even Cat who were so stiff and cool with the smallfolk, Petyr was charming and lovely to the great and the mean...

"It is my great honour and delight to announce the alliance of both our houses..." Father sprinkled words like 'mutual faith and goodwill' and 'peace' and 'joy' into his speech and Lord Rickard was beaming and Cat was blushing and Brandon was smiling, they'd look sweet together, she supposed. Cat with her red hair and Brandon with his dark hair...

Petyr had dark hair too so she'd look just as well with him, better even for Petyr was handsomer by far than the northern boy. Oh, short to be sure, but then he'd grow, she knew he would and even if he did not it would not matter, he was so clever, she'd be marrying the cleverest man in the kingdom and one day the King would choose him for his Small Council and Cat and her fine Warden of the North could rot in the north...

"-The direwolf and the trout-"

It sounded so strange, the way he said that. The direwolf and the trout. She almost giggled, really it was so funny. The trout was a dreadful sigil for anyone, but when you put it with a wolf... well. Uncle Brynden called himself 'the Blackfish' and it sounded proper and knightly, but really there were only so many interesting names you could tack on if your sigil was a _trout._

Petyr said Edmure ought to call himself 'the Floppy Fish' judging from his performance on the fencing court, he was so witty... Petyr's sigil was a giant, but he said he preferred a mockingbird, so sweet and charming... the mockingbird and the trout sounded better, though not by much. As for Lady Lyanna and Lord Robert, they'd be the direwolf and the stag and everyone knew wolves ate stags.

"-The strength of the north and the bounty of the south-"

Father was still talking, how could he talk for so long? Petyr said all lords did, it was essential for a lord to love the sound of his voice more than anything else in the world. Petyr was so witty, he said such clever, clever things and how she wished she was clever like him...

"-The betrothal of my daughter, Lady Catelyn Tully, and Lord Brandon Stark-"

Petyr shot up and knocked his goblet over. "I defy this marriage!" he shouted, so loud that everyone heard him and now everyone was staring, gods, what was amiss with him? Had he had too much to drink, there was a queer look in his eye-

"Petyr!" she hissed, half-rising, but he'd already strode up the table towards Brandon, who was sitting with his mouth wide open, like a fish gasping for air... Uncle Brynden had stood up and he was saying, "Lad, calm yourself," but Petyr was red in the face and angry, so angry-looking.

He slapped him on the cheek and Lady Lyanna gave a squeal, a piglike squeal and Father opened his mouth to say something but now Brandon had risen and it was all so confusing, she was going to talk to Petyr, she must, he'd drunk too much but Cat had gotten up too and she caught her arm and hissed, "Leave him be!"

"Lord Brandon Stark," Petyr was saying formally. "I challenge you to a duel for the honour of Lady Catelyn's hand."

"Lord Brandon!" Cat's voice was an octave higher, just like it was when she had to sing the high parts in 'The Greenfinch and the Linnet', but she sounded sad when she was singing it and now she sounded frightened. But you couldn't blame her, Lysa felt queer and frightened too, this was not like Petyr, surely he'd had too much to drink, he'd never do something so stupid. And he didn't love Cat anyhow, he loved her, only her...

"Lord Brandon, you will forgive Petyr Baelish's impertinence, he is only a green boy and-" Cat was tumbling over her words, she'd started to go up to Brandon but Lord Rickard held up his hand suddenly.

"A green boy," he said, with the chill of the north in his voice. "Who's challenged my son to single combat." Lysa could see it in his face, the words he did not utter when he turned to Petyr. Honour, it was all about honour for the Starks and they didn't care that Petyr was only a bit of a boy, a foolish boy who'd drunk too much, these dreadful, barbaric northerners. "Do you recant your words, Petyr Baelish?"

"Never!"

Dear gods, what was amiss? "Petyr you fool!" she screamed but Brandon was saying very formally, "I accept the challenge, Baelish. At your will, we will duel when the ninth bell has struck tomorrow morning." He bowed formally and suddenly she realized this was for real, this was not a boy's little duel, this was a man's, a man's with real, live swords and gods, Petyr'd never used a real sword, he hated training, even Edmure could best him-

"My son, Edmure will squire for you," Father was saying and Edmure gave a little squeal of horror. Whose side was Father on? The dreadful northern boy's or Petyr, Petyr who was so clever and good and whom he'd known for so many years, who he should have come to love as a son...

But no, he saw only the heir to Winterfell challenged by a green boy, heir to the littlest of the Fingers.

Petyr was bowing and then he was striding out of the hall and Uncle Brynden was following him. Lady Lyanna was still sitting with her mouth wide open, but she hadn't time to see anyone else for she was going to Petyr, she must go to him, talk him out this madness, what had possessed him? And for _Cat_, of all people, Cat who wasn't near as smart or pretty as her, Cat who didn't love him, dutiful Cat who lived to serve Father's will...

"Lysa! Catelyn!" Father's voice was a rumble. "I command your presence here."

And then she realized with a start that Cat had been following Petyr too but now she stood stock still, rooted by duty, her damned duty which was all she cared about, not Petyr, lovely, sweet, gentle Petyr... But she was not like Cat, stonehearted Cat, and she would have ignored Father's words too, but Cat held her back and whispered, "Shh, it's not worth it, we'll see him later, don't cry, sweetling," and then she realized with a start that there were tears on her cheeks, that's why it had become so blurry and suddenly she was crying in Cat's arms, as though they weren't in the middle of the Great Hall, as though everyone wasn't staring, she was crying and her sister was holding her and Cat's tears were wet on her cheeks too.

**A/N:**

**Oblivion: I don't know how it could be mutual, to tell the truth... I mean, here's Lyanna 14 years old, very passionate and very fiery apparently, and there's Rhaegar 22 going on 100... he always struck me as a sort of Young Dumbledore/Gandalf who tragically died before he could acquire the accessory white beard. I always thought all the girls in the Seven Kingdoms were madly in love with him and he was all 'meh, I'm turning asexual after the dragon has three heads'. 'Screw or Die' - lol! I'd love to write a scene with Rhaegar confronting Lord Rickard and telling him just that.**

**singeroffireandice: Why, thank you!  
><strong>


	6. Lyanna: Riverrun

_The__ southern rain was soft and warm. Catelyn liked the feel of it on her face, gentle as a mother's kisses. It took her__ back to her childhood, to long grey days at Riverrun. She remembered the godswood, drooping branches heavy__ with moisture, and the sound of her brother's laughter as he chased her through piles of damp leaves. She__ remembered making mud pies with Lysa, the weight of them, the mud slick and brown between her fingers. They__ had served them to Littlefinger, giggling, and he'd eaten so much mud he was sick for a week. How young they__ all had been._

_Catelyn had almost forgotten. In the north, the rain fell cold and hard, and sometimes at night it turned to ice. It__ was as likely to kill a crop as nurture it, and it sent grown men running for the nearest shelter. That was no rain for__ little girls to play in._

**A Game of Thrones**

* * *

><p>Lyanna woke to a salt-and-pepper sky.<p>

It had rained steadily through the night and even now, she could hear the steady plink-plonk of the rain dripping down the eaves. The light that crept in through the cracks in the shutters was sullen and grey and from the distance, she could hear the rumble of the swollen rivers, the Tumblestone and the Red Fork that lay beyond the castle walls.

_I hate rain, _she thought, pulling on a pair of breeches before she remembered that she was at Riverrun. _I hate it when the sky's all grey. It's such a sad colour. Why did the gods make greys at all? _She pulled a gown over her head and splashed cold water from the pitcher on her face. It was early, she knew - she always woke early - and there'd be none but a few servants about this hour.

_I'll nip down to the stables and then come back and clean up before breakfast, _she thought. _Sweetling might be lonely for me. _Sweetling was her white palfrey, as high-strung as a high lady and prettier by far than many of the ladies Lyanna had met. _Chastity and Salty too, _she thought, remembering Brandon's horses. _The rain unsettles them..._

Then she remembered the godswood. Lysa had shown her the heart tree the day before, a slender weirwood with a sorrowing face. _It looks so lonely, _she'd thought. _So... hungry for someone. Someone to sing to it and whisper secrets and- and maybe even cry before it, ask for counsel... it looks so sad. _The Tullys kept a sept and their godswood was little more than a garden, their heart tree kept for false show.

She pushed open the shutters and regarded the prospect. It was distinctly unfriendly. _It's too cold, _she thought. _It's freezing and we left all our woollens up north because Father said it would be warmer here... I can't go today._

_A Stark of Winterfell afraid of the cold? _a biting voice asked. _You shame your name. The south is making you soft. _

Feeling guilty, she put on her cloak and slipped outside.

_What does being a Stark of Winterfell have to do with not being afraid of the cold? _she thought as she went out, annoyed with herself. It was the kind of thing she might say to Robert for a jape, but it was ridiculous to use it in an argument with herself. _The old gods are talking to me._

She passed through empty halls and through halls with giggling servant girls pressed against pillars by stable-boys. She slid down the banisters of a pair of staircases because no one was looking and jumped five feet from a little window straight into a mud puddle. The only thing good about the rain was mud puddles.

Giggling, she waded out. It was warmer than she would have guessed and when she pushed her hood off her hair, the rain was gentle on her face. Mellow, even. _There is a softness to the south, _how many times had she heard it said at Winterfell? _Their winters are as our summers, their lives spent carousing under the sun. They have no fear of what the morrow might bring for they need never look further than their own petty quarrells - they have no wall to gird them and remind them that there are still gods. _

She stuck out her tongue and drank the rain. It tasted as sweet as it smelt and suddenly she remembered a day they'd been cooped indoors. She'd been twelve and Ned had been home and they'd played monsters-and-maidens for hours, even though they were not children_, _and sipped spiced wine in Father's rooms and talked about... oh many things, she'd forgotten.

Ships and shoes and sealing-wax, cabbages and kings. They'd come to talking about smells and Brandon said he loved the smell of fresh-baked pies, hot from the oven, and Ned loved the smell of new-mown hay and Ben, who was nine and going through a phase, said he loved the smell of fresh blood. She'd dithered between the smell of the stables and of her roses, but finally she'd decided that she loved the _cold_ smell of the godswood at dawn.

_There's no such thing as a _cold_ smell, _Ben had objected.

_There is too, _she'd told him. _The wolves and the Starks can smell it, but you're just a puny little runt, I wouldn't expect you to know._

_There is not! _he'd insisted and turned to Father. _Tell her there isn't. _

_There is, _he'd agreed, patting nine-year-old Ben's head. _There's a cold smell just as there's a hot smell and once I loved the cold as well as you do, Lyanna... but there's the rain smell too and it's sweeter by far. _

The rains of the north were hard and bitter and she hadn't understood what he'd meant then. Now - now she did.

_This is the smell of spring, _she thought, tipping her head back, stepping over a few mud puddles and skipping over others. _This is the smell of newness and little growing things poking their heads out of the ground. _The cold smell was white and the hot smell was red but this... this could only be a yellow smell, though it did not remind her of lemon pies. Maybe even a golden smell. _A happy smell, _she decided as she reached the heart tree and ducked under the low-sweeping boughs. _I wish I could bottle it up. _

She was wet to the ankles, so she slid off her shoes. The moss that carpeted the ground under the tree was as soft as velvet and she wiggled her toes in it. There was a bit of mud too, delightfully squishy mud, and grass, soft grass, as green as the cloaks of the wood nymphs who lived in the cusps of the snowdrops and wove dreams and music from the throats of white lilies.

_How long has it been since I've felt the grass under my feet? _she thought. Too long, she decided - winter had lasted for five years and to go barefoot in the snow was to ask for death.

She curled up at the feet of the tree, as she would curl up at her father's and instantly, she felt at home. _You poor thing, _she thought, brushing her fingers against the white bark, against the hollow eyes of the carved face. _How lonely you must be._ From beneath the canopy of leaves, she could see a tower, green with ivy, and the stream where the Tully girls had played as children, banked by elms and redwoods.

_I wonder what you've seen, _she thought, closing her eyes and beginning her song. _Did you see the tower when it was first built, and the men who built it too? Did you see those redwoods when they were just saplings, itty bitty things I could snap with my fingers? When did someone last sing to you?_

She liked sad songs but somehow, she felt that those would not be right. Spring was coming and the heart tree had not had a song for so long - it deserved something happier, something brisk and sweet and lively. It was raining, but the 'Rains of Castamere' would not be fitting. The Bear and the Maiden Fair was merry, but it was more Robert's style than hers - and besides, you could hardly expect the gods to like a bawdy song though Father always said that beggars and gods were the same in that they could not be chooserswhere patrons were concerned.

But for some reason, the only remotely cheerful song she could remember was 'Jenny of Oldstones.'

"Jenny of Oldstones, with the flowers in her hair..."

_Such a grave child, _Lady Elanor had once said when Father had made her sing for her and all she could sing were the sad ones. Lady Elanor with her honey-tinted eyes and her curls the colour of a daffodil's rings. Lovely, laughing Lady Elanor who'd go riding with Father, who'd dance with Father... _She needs a mother's care, poor child, a woman's laughter to ring through the halls and teach her to be merry. _

"Under the spreading weirwood tree, I sold you and you sold me..."_  
><em>

_I put her to rights, _she remembered with grim pleasure. _I set the hounds on her and Quicksilver and Padfoot chased her up a tree... served her right, trying to steal Father away from us. Trying to snare him. _The Baelish boy had called her 'possessive'. Well, maybe she was. Lord Stark was a prize catch from any northwoman but Lady Elanor had come to understand - or rather, had been made to - that the honours of the Lady of Winterfell simply weren't worth the trouble of the Stark children.

"The Prince of Dragonflies-"

He had a handsome face and a lively wit, that much had to be confessed. It had amused her to tease Robert by flirting with him - the Baelish boy had been good-humoured enough to indulge her too. And yet, there was something vaguely unsettling about him. His grandfather had been little better than a Braavosi sellsword and yet he bore himself like a prince.

Too clever by far - she mistrusted his ilk. She could treat with the greatfolk and she could treat with the smallfolk - the first because of necessity, the second because she liked them, liked them in the way she liked her horses and her dogs. But anything in between - merchants and maesters and mercenaries, those who had risen high by the strength of their arms or their wits - she found disconcerting. It was a prejudice as strong as her faith, as deeply ingrained as the roots of the weirwoods of Winterfell.

"And high in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts," a voice finished for her. "You sing well, my lady."

Her eyes snapped open. Perched on the thick roots before her sat Petyr Baelish, a gnomish smile on his handsome face. If she had ever felt shame, she would have felt it then - ashamed of her bare feet, her mud-splattered clothes and untidy hair. Ashamed of being caught singing to a tree - she didn't even like to do it in front of her brothers. Only Father really understood.

But she had never felt ashamed of anything in her life and now all she felt was annoyance that he'd come sneaking up on her, resentment that he'd spoilt the moment.

"Thank you," she muttered. "I was uh- singing to the tree." She patted it awkardly. "Trees grow better when you sing to them."

"Of course." Was he laughing at her?

She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms about them defensively.

"Jenny of Oldstones," he mused and it was clear that he was not talking to her. "We passed Oldstones on our way to Seagard once... Lord Hoster told us the tale of Tristifer, the Hammer of Justice they called him. Cat played at being Jenny and I wove the violets that grew at Tristifer's feet in a wreath for her."

_As Ned once wove flowers for me. Still would, perhaps, if I asked him to._

"It was a simpler time then," he said wistfully and she had to agree.

"Marriages mess everything up," she said, warming to him.

"Speaking from experience?"

"Yes." She regarded him. "I didn't know you held faith to the old gods."

His lips quirked into a smile. "What gave you that idea, my lady?"

"Well," she said uncertainly. "You're fighting a duel today, remember? If it were me I'd be praying to my gods and since you're not in the sept..."

"Surely your brother cannot be so formidable."

She blinked at him. "He's the best swordsman at Winterfell!" she protested. "And you..." _You're nothing but a green boy. Even I could put a quick end to you. _

"My tongue is my sword," he said gracefully.

"Don't they say 'my quill is my sword'?" she asked. It was a southron saying, and as all southron sayings, stupid. _A quill and a sword, hmm... now which one would I pick in a duel?_

"That too."

"My brother will be gentle on you," she said loftily.

"A great lord's pity. A great lord's contempt." He smiled. "It is more than I deserve, surely, but I thank him for the kindness all the same." He regarded her. "Lysa will be hunting for me all over the castle - a lady's armour might be courtesy, but Lysa's is persistence. She will not think to look for me in the godswood - I am not known for my fervour, my lady."

"You follow the faith of the Seven then?" she asked him.

"Sept-worshippers, tree-worshippers, salt-worshippers, fire-worshippers..." He shrugged. "They're all names. Man made the names and man made the gods."

Her eyes widened in horror and he grinned. "You hold to no gods?" she spluttered. "Do you call yourself an infidel?" _A man must have his gods, _she had heard it said. _Any gods, as many or as few as he chooses. Else he is forever rootless, forever condemned to wander in the realms of the shades and the shadows. _

He leaned back and watched her, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Define god."

"Well..." she hesitated, sucking her finger. "The gods- well, they're- I mean they're big and- and no, not big but well..." _Define god. _Two words. It sounded so easy. She trailed off uncertainly. "I am no theologian," she finally said. "I am only a simple maid. I cannot answer that. I can only pray for wisdom and blunder on the path-"

"In other words, you don't know," he said bluntly.

She shrugged. "I don't need to know," she said sweetly. "It's not my place. I don't think I'd even want to know."

"To define is to limit," he said kindly. "Remember to use that when someone else asks you. It means nothing, but it sounds clever."

It sounded almost sacrilegious the way he said it. "Go hide in the sept," she said rudely. _The old gods deserve better than the likes of you. _

"Cat will be there," he said. "And I thought it best not to... intrude. Have no fear, my lady, it's your brother she'll be praying for. I'll wager he has her favour knotted about his arm this very moment. Cat is most particular about the old rituals."

"She could pray for you and it wouldn't make a difference," Lyanna said. "A lady's favour might make a difference in a tilt, but in a joust it's only the sword that matters."

In truth, she felt jealous of him. _I would have been ten times the swordsman you are if Father had let him wear a sword, _she thought. _Ten times, bah, a hundred times, a thousand. What do you have that I don't? Who made the rules and decided that a miserable worm like you could play with swords while I'd have to be content with a needle? _She strummed a harp, true, but her fingers were made to strike with a sword. _  
><em>

"Desperation gives a man courage," he said airily. "And I am as desperate to steal your brother's betrothed as you are to steal away from your own betrothed."

"I'm not- I'm-" she spluttered and then made a face when he only smiled. "Maybe I am."

"Maybe might be putting it mildly."

"I'll grow up," she said, shrugging. "At least Father _says_ I will although I don't want to." She leaned against the weirwood and stretched out her arms. "I'll fall in love with him someday or the other. I'll give him a score of sons and I'll be forever tripping over his bastards."

As she said it, she could picture it quite clearly - Storm's End with the waves lashing at the pearly-white walls of the proud castle and black-haired, blue-eyed children romping in the woodlands and the glades. Fat Robert bellowing for his broth and fat Lyanna bleating about bastards. Apple orchards and grandchildren and roses in the lands which knew no winters. "He'll drink himself to death and I'll die bringing out another baby for him." It didn't sound so bad now that she put it into words. There were sadder ways to live - she knew them all, she'd sung those songs hadn't she?

He was looking at her shrewdly. Too shrewdly she thought. It was almost unseemly. "And yet," he said softly. "You'd rather live in a song, wouldn't you? Go on your own adventures. Lysa's like that."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "But Lysa's dreams end in being rescued from her dragon." He grimaced. "Of course she hopes I'll be her knight in shining armour, no matter how many times I tell her otherwise. I would be better suited to being the all-knowing white-cloaked wizard on her quest... but you, you'd rather meet the dragon or the kraken or whatever monster strikes your fancy alone, wouldn't you? Robert Baratheon cuts a fine figure of a man but he'd have poor thanks at your hands if he ever rescued you."

"You know too much," she said but she had to smile. He was so right.

For some reason, he looked like he pitied her. She didn't like that. _You're no better than a sellsword's son, _she thought. _And I'm a Stark of Winterfell - you can't look at me like that. _

"Life is not a song, sweetling," he murmured.

"I wouldn't want it to be," she said, trying to be witty. "I'd want to be the monster-slayer and if it were a song, I'd end up being the damsel-in-distress." She liked to sing those songs but living in them did not appeal to her. Well, not much. Perhaps a little.

"Well." He rested his head in his hands. "Luck to you, then, Lyanna of Winterfell. Maybe you will meet your monsters someday. Today I meet mine."

"You don't look too distressed," she pointed out. "Humility would fit you better at such a moment - my brother is no mean swordsman."

"I never said he was," he said calmly. "But you will excuse me, my lady, if I point out that humility is not my colour."

"What is your colour then?"

He gave her the strangest smile. "Chaos."

There was no use talking to him. He made her feel muddle-headed.

"Good day to you, Petyr Baelish," she said, getting up. She picked up her shoes and the hem of her gown so that he could look at her trim ankles if he chose. She had such a pretty pair of ankles - Robert seemed to like them well enough but then Robert liked anything as long as it wore a skirt. _At least that makes him better than the Red Viper,_ she thought, remembering the tales they told of Prince Oberyn of Dorne, Princess Elia's brother. _They say he'll bang everything, skirt or no skirt._ He was barely twenty and yet his repute was as fierce as that of a lord of twice his years. _He lay with Lord Yronwood's paramour when he was sixteen and they fought a duel to the first blood and then..._

Suddenly the story came to her with a jolt and she stood absolutely still. _And Lord Yronwood's wounds festered and he died for the prince's spear was dipped in the viper's poisons. Poison - the woman's weapon, the craven's weapon._

_Petyr Baelish, he seemed so calm, so cheerful, so... confident. And yet he must know that Brandon's not some unblooded boy to be won by a quick thrust, not even by a boy driven to desperation by love... and he's clever. Too clever by far. He must have known that Brandon was to wed Catelyn and yet he chose to do nothing, not till last night. He wasn't driven mad by love, he planned this all through, just like he won the game with Lysa last night, he planned it all through... _

She picked up her skirts and ran for all she was worth.

* * *

><p>Lyanna hopped from one foot to the other in front of Lord Hoster's door. She looked quite presentable now, though the same could not be said for her state of mind. She'd dithered over whom to tell and had finally decided that Lord Hoster would be best. Brandon would laugh and call her 'little sister' and do nothing. Ned and Ben would tell Father and Father would have sliced off Petyr Baelish's pretty head.<p>

_If it's a duel he wants, _she thought grimly. _He'll have a duel. But a fair one. If he's game enough to win Catelyn Tully's hand by the skill of his own sword then he can have her. The north will be better off without her and her spawn but if not... no. She's Brandon's if Brandon can win her in a fair fight. _

_I wish someone challenged Robert to a duel over me, _she thought wistfully. _It would be so exciting. Maybe I'd like Robert better if he won me in a duel instead of Father just handing me over to him like a goat._

"Lady Lyanna." Lord Hoster's voice intruded on her thoughts. "To what do I owe this most welcome intrusion? And at such an early hour?"

"I've been up for an hour," she blurted out, before remembering that she had a job. "My lord," she said, putting on her most innocent face and clasping her hands behind her back. She looked up at him, trying to seem as sweet and girlish as possible. "I was uh... worried about the duel."

"Indeed?" He held out his arm for her with an old-fashioned gallantry that was very charming. "Will you allow me to escort you to the hall, my lady? It has been long since I have had the honour to escort so fair and so young a lady, saving mine own daughters."

Giggling, she took it. _I giggle too much, _she thought. "I was thinking that it would be uh- too mismatched. The duel. Between my brother and Baelish."

"Every duel is mismatched," he said carefully. "One cannot expect the same skill from two opponents - though I must say that it makes for a more fascinating prospect when they are more closely matched. Today's duel however-" He shrugged. "Petyr is little more than a child. He has forgotten his place, true, but I have it in mind to make him remember."

"It's not that, my lord," she said, choosing her words carefully. She didn't want him to suspect Baelish or to cancel the duel. She wanted to shame the stupid boy who'd dared to think he could win a duel by stealth. "Their swords - Brandon might have it in mind to use Ice."

"Your father's greatsword?"

She nodded. "Valyrian steel," she said. Ice was as long as she and as wide across as Brandon's hand. "How could Baelish hope to compete with that? My lord, you must agree that they are most unevenly matched. I would not have it whispered in your halls that my brother won by virtue of the better blade."

"You need have no fears on that account," he replied. "In my halls, it is well known that Petyr Baelish is a boy whose mouth is too big for his body, small as it is."

"My brother will be merciful, for Lady Catelyn's sake," she said, "But, in a duel, things happen so quickly..." She shrugged. "There is no honour in butchering a child."

He gave her a long, searching look and what he saw did not seem to please him. "You speak wisely," he said. An odd way to phrase things. "Very well... let it be so. We will match Petyr and Brandon with twin blades - but say nothing of this until the last moment, not before I announce it. Petyr is-" He hesitated before he said it, "wily. He has his father's face but in nature, he is no trueborn son of Joren Baelish. A good man, he was, he fought at my side during the War of the Ninepenny Kings - you would not remember it, no? You were not yet born, I think-"

And Lyanna was forced to smile sweetly and listen to him prattle about how many heads he'd taken in those old days, and how true his sword and his shield had been those golden days of long-lost summer...

_The things I do for love, _she thought resentfully.

* * *

><p><em>Rhaegar, I thought... the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King's Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet.<em>

**A Feast of Crows**

* * *

><p><em>There is ill luck in the bleeding star they say, and yet it augured well for the Whents of Harrenhal. <em>

After months of dillying and some more of dallying, his royal father had finally decided to grace the great tourney. To the Whents, this was the highest of honours for the Mad King had not set foot outside the walls of the Red Keep for long years - not since his heart had been sickened and his mind unsettled by the Defiance of Duskendale. The comet had brought luck, the pyromancers - whom the King trusted more than his Hand and more than his son - said. _Fire and blood. _

All was hum and hustle in the yard, for their journey would begin today. The court in all it's pomp and pageantry would attend him, save for Lord Tywin, conspicuous by his absence. From his lofty perch on the parapets, Rhaegar looked down. He had hoped the cool air and the fair prospect would cheer his heart, as it often did. But the walls of the Red Keep were too soaked in blood and secret sins to bring him any joy and even the air seemed tainted. There were times when he had to flee to Summerhall to cleanse his soul.

Today, however, as the silken banners were unfurled and the bright day was rich with laughter and song, he could only brood.

_Have an eye to the lion lord, my prince, _Varys had whispered to him, dropping one of his masks and wearing five others. _He is of a mind to cast down his chain and who can say what more?_

_There is nothing I can do to appease him, _Rhaegar thought. _As long as my father persists in his folly, his madness-_

_-As long as you let him, _a sly voice whispered. _The smallfolk and the great have no love for King Scab. But for their Dragonprince-_

_I am not strong enough to cast him down, _he thought but it was a lie, even to his own ears. It would be a lie to say that it was sin to usurp a king's throne, unseat a father. A mad king was no king, and he deserved to be put down as much as a mad dog. Maybe even more, for the mad dog could harm one man or ten, but a mad king could touch a thousand.

_You have the strength of Baelor Breakspeare and you are loved, nay worshipped as another Aemon the Dragonknight. _Should he clap his father in irons or in the silken fetters of the Maidenvault or slip the tears of Lys in his wine, there would be none to say him nay. 'Kinslayer' might or might not be whispered, but he had never cared for labels - he had always done what he had known to be right. _Or what I thought to be right, at any rate. _In their hearts, they might even be grateful to him if he ever found the courage to put his father down.

_Winter is coming, _he thought, remembering the words of the Starks of Winterfell. They knew a thing or two about winter, those hard northmen in whose veins the ice of the First Men flowed. _I would do well to learn from them. _

A time would come, he knew, when he would have to do what he dreaded. Aerys would have to be put aside - even now Varys urged it on him, arguing the health of the kingdom. A strong hand was needed to put all the wrongs his father had done to right - to prepare for the winter he knew would come. That hand could not be Aerys'. Neither could it be Lord Tywin's now, on whom he had counted.

_Cersei might wed Viserys, _he thought. That would please Lord Tywin. _But will a mere marriage, so late come, soothe his pride? Father stole Jaime Lannister and Lord Tywin is not like to forget that. I will raise him to the Handship when I am King - if he will take it.  
><em>

He shook his head. These were problems to ponder on a rainy day, bridges that he had not yet come to. His father might sit easy on the throne for now, there were more pressing problems closer at hand.

_The dragon must have three heads. Before I step into the game of thrones, I must play the game of the gods, _he thought. _And I am now too craven to step against him. _He reconsidered that. Not craven, perhaps - but unwilling. In the end he would always do his duty, but seldom willingly. His fingers were made to strum a harp not to strike with a sword, his eyes to pour over thickly-lettered scrolls not battle maps. _And yet I have always done my duty, _he mused. _I wonder why? It would have been less bother to ignore it. Family, duty, honour - I ought to take the Tully words. _Then he remembered that he had been contemplating a royal coup and patricide. _Well, maybe not 'family' then._

"Rhaegar!"

The high childish voice interrupted his musings.

"Viserys," he said, laughing. He scooped his six-year-old brother up and threw him up in the air, just as he had done since Viserys was a baby. _Throw me again, Rhaegar! Higher! _Viserys would scream. _I want to fly like a dragon!_

"Rhaegar."

His lady mother swept down the battlements, her smile as bright as her silver hair. A brittle smile though. Her ladies-in-waiting trailed behind her and one carried a baby playing with a dragon's egg. Elia had not come - she was afraid of heights.

"Thank you," he said, taking Rhaenys from Ashara Dayne with a smile.

"_Rhaegar,_" Viserys protested, tugging at his sleeve. "You can pick Rhae up any old time, throw me up again. I want-"

"Little princes shouldn't get what they want," Ashara said solemnly, crouching to his level. "It's bad for their little tummies."

"I'll give _you_ bad for your tummy-"

"Hush, child," the Queen said absently. She nodded to Ashara and the others. "Take him away."

"Take him away really means off with your head," Ashara whispered to Viserys. "That's your royal mother's plan, my prince, when there are too many dragons around we lop their little heads off, ever heard the story about the Dance of the Dragons-"

"Ashara." Cersei Lannister stepped forwards and took Viserys' hand. _Pandering to the prince already, aren't we? _"Don't frighten him."

"I'm not frightened!" Viserys protested, wriggling out of Cersei's grip. "Tell me!"

Ashara stuck out her tongue at Cersei's and led Viserys away. "Once upon a time..." she began. The other ladies-in-waiting followed though Cersei lingered.

_A pity that so fair a face masks so foul a heart, _Rhaegar thought, looking at her. Cersei Lannister was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He had first laid eyes on her at Lannisport when she was eight and he seventeen, had heard the whispers that her father hoped to betroth her to him. The idea had been pleasing for the girl seemed as fertile as she was fair. But that had been before she had come to court, soon after her first flowering, and he had occassion to known her better. _That was the only kind thing Father ever did for me, not accepting Lord Tywin's offer. _His gain was only Viserys' loss.

"Cersei." His mother's voice was sharp. She had something to tell him. "Why do you linger?"

Cersei spoke to the Queen, but her eyes were on him. "I thought that I was to take the little princess?"

"Thank you, no," he said politely. "I have not held my daughter for long. Rhae- no, don't eat that." She was trying to swallow her dragon's egg whole. It was half as long as she was, scarlet swirled with black. Cersei curtseyed in a rustle of golden Myrish lace and took her leave. He sighed and took the egg from the little girl. "Who let her play with that?"

His mother stiffened, annoyed. "What better toy for a dragoness?" she asked coolly. "Would your Dornish bride have her play with the snakes and vipers?"

Before Rhae could cry for her 'toy', he began to juggle it. He'd picked the trick off a fool from Volantis and it had never failed to amuse a woman, no matter what her age or station. Sure enough, Rhae began to giggle and clap her little hands. "Da!" she squealed. "Da!"

_I wonder what her first word was, _he thought wistfully. He'd been away at Summerhall when Elia had written to tell him that Rhaenys had begun to speak. He had never thought to ask what word she had first spoken, though.

"Da," he agreed, kissing her forehead. He glanced at his mother. "She's a baby," he said. "Not a dragoness. And this-" he handed the egg over to her- "is no child's toy."

"You think her a child." His mother's lilac eyes narrowed. Viserys and she shared the same eyes - his were darker, indigo like his father's. "I see no child, Rhaegar, I see a dragon. And her enemies will see the same when they look at her."

"She has no enemies." He jiggled her. Her hair seemed to have grown longer, it brushed her little shoulders and fell into her big black eyes. Black hair, just like her mother's.

His mother sniffed. "Her grandfather for one."

"Which?"

She thought about it. "Both. I do not trust Loreza's husband or my own, for the matter, to see beyond their own noses."

He chuckled.

"He dreamt of a maid who passed through fire and went unburnt," she warned him.

He remembered it. "That was years ago," he said. "Thirteen- fourteen?" Aerys had tracked down a goatherd's daughter, believing that she answered the description of the phantom that had haunted his dreams, and burnt her. Rhaegar had been eight then, there was nothing he could have done. But the memory of her screams had haunted him and for years he had dreamt of the smoke billowing from the windows of the Throne Room where they had tied her to the stake and burnt her. _Perhaps it was an omen, _he mused. _I found those scrolls soon afterwards and since then..._

"He might decide that _your_ daughter was the girl who should have been passed through the fire," she said harshly. "Aerion Brightflame thought he was a dragon and drank wildfire. Why shouldn't your father believe that the same might be true of Rhaenys?"

It was a warm day but suddenly he felt cold. His grip on Rhaenys' tightened and she poked his eye. His mother leaned against the wall and smiled cruelly. "You'd kill him before you let that happen, wouldn't you?" she said. "You ought to have done it years ago, Rhaegar my son, but maybe you'll find the courage to do it before it's too late."

"Kinslaying-"

She laughed and suddenly there was something very ugly in her lovely face. "No man is as cursed as the kinslayer, in the eyes of gods and men." She leaned forwards and plucked Rhaenys out of his arms. "_We _are the gods, Rhaegar. Our blood is the blood of Old Valyria, of dragons and gods - have you forgotten?"

_Dragon's blood, you have, _she'd whisper to him when he was a child, little older than Rhaenys. _And god's blood, too. You are a god, Rhaegar, my sweet prince, the Prince of Summer who will drive away the wraiths of winter. _She had seen it in her dreams too, years before he had read about it. Her father Jaehaerys had seen it too, that the Prince who was Promised would be born of his line. He had chosen to wed his son to his daughter in that hope, though the Targaryens had not wed their sisters for two generations when their marriage was made. It had appealed to Rhaegar when he was a child but now - now he knew that she was in error. _I am as much the Prince of Summer as you are the wraith of winter. _

"You know I don't hold in the gods," he only said mildly.

She looked at him pityingly. "Of course you do, child," she said. "All men do." She smiled. "But of course, the gods themselves hold in no false gods."

He groaned. "Was there anything you wanted to say to me?" he asked. Elia said much the same thing as his mother.

"I have half a mind to wed young Ashara to Ser Ilyn Payne," she complained, fanning herself with one hand. Rhaenys had gone back to playing with her egg. "She talks too much. She's always telling Viserys the bloodiest stories she can remember, hearth-tales from the north, all peopled by snarks and grumkins and the dead who walk by night-"

"Ashara's always talked too much," he said mildly. Ashara's mother, one of the queen's girlhood companions, had died when she was a child. Her father had married again but Rhaella had taken charge of the girl's upbringing herself and brought her up at court. He remembered the time she'd been four and he'd been eleven when she'd gone up to his father and told him that she wanted to marry Prince Rhaegar. His father, who had been slightly less mad in those days, had only patted her head but he'd had to endure Arthur's teasing for days afterward. _If she'd gone up to Father now, he'd see it as treason, most likely. _These days, his father saw treason in the way he ate rhubarb pudding.

"And children are the most bloodthirsty little beasts, after all," he continued. "I always liked the stories about the long winter best when I was Viserys' age."

She nodded absently. "Do you remember your cousin Robert?"

"I have so few cousins that it would be hard to forget them." He'd not seen the Baratheon boys for seven years or so - they'd last come to court after their parents had died in a shipwreck, he remembered. Robert had been the eldest - a sullen boy who'd kept his grief to himself. Eight-year-old Ashara, who was prone to falling in love, had written sonnets to his bonny blue eyes and his ink-black hair. Arthur had been forced to listen to those sonnets. "What of him?"

"He's seventeen," his mother said. "He thinks he's a man grown."

"By law he is."

"He's still a child," she snapped, looking vexed. "A child playing at being a man - he's gone and gotten himself betrothed, Varys says."

_Good for him. _Still, he saw the nature of her complaint. "Father can hardly see treason in that," he protested. It was treason for members of the royal family to marry without the king's consent - but that only extended to first cousins. Robert Baratheon did not fall within the limit of consanguinity.

"He's marrying a northern girl," his mother said. "Lord Stark's daughter."

"They keep to themselves in the north," he agreed. "But what could be the harm if they make a marriage or two out of it?" _Father has never taken much interest in the north. One betrothal will mean nothing to him._

She sighed. "Lord Stark has three sons and one daughter," she said slowly. "The eldest is betrothed to Lord Tully's daughter. And the younger two - well, who can say how high he might aim? Lord Stark has already allied himself to two great houses. What would it mean should he have it mind to wed another son to the ironborn and another to a Lannister?"

"It might be harmless," he said. "A father looking out for his children-"

"Your father who has never looked out for his children, will see only treason." She looked steadily at him. "You were at Summerhall when Viserys was born and Varys had the matter hushed up but there was much talk between your royal father and Rossart." Rossart was the head of the Alchemist Guild, his father's pet pyromancer. "The power of kingsblood. Apparently, he thought one son was more than enough."

He stared at her.

"I told him I'd slit his throat if he touched my child," she said harshly. "His and Rossart's and any man or woman who came near. Until you came, I didn't let Viserys out of my sight, not for a moment. I slept with a dagger and in the end Rossart mumbled a few words about kinslaying and found him another babe to burn." She took a deep breath. "You know your father, Rhaegar. Robert is little more than a boy, your cousin." He heard the words that she did not whisper. _Steffon's boy. _"Promise me that you will let no harm come to him?"

"I'll try," he said.

"You'll do more than try," she said grimly. "I'll have that promise from you. He can burn Lord Stark and all his sons and his daughter, if he wants but Robert - no. It's been a long time in coming and you should have done it earlier, but if he even _thinks_ about harming Robert you're to kill him. No, don't pull that face - it's your duty to your family." He was her brother, the father of her precious sons. She was a Targaryen, it mattered not a jot to her.

He registered that. "My duty to my family is to kill my father?"

"Why, yes," she said, the irony washing over her. "Promise me, child."

He could see no way out of it. _This has been a long time in coming, _he thought grimly. "I promise." The smile that flashed across her face was almost worth it. "Are you sure you won't go to Harrenhal with us?" She had declined the invitation and what was more, refused to let Viserys go. His brother had been heartbroken.

She shook her head. "I hate bloodsports," she said daintily. "The very sight of blood makes me ill, and I won't have your brother raised to think of such folly, this spilling of blood, as a game."

_And yet you would have me spill my father's blood. _

She noticed the look on his face for she reached over and stroked his cheek. "It's your duty, sweetling, and you know it as well as I. You were born to do this."

_What, to kill my father? _He said nothing though, knowing her to be implacable _Maybe one day Elia will say the same thing to Rhaenys, _he thought, feeling oddly cheerfully though kinslaying and kingslaying were grim matters no doubt. _When Father was my age, he was as sane as me, after all. Who's not to say that I won't end up like him?_

* * *

><p><em>She had seen men practice at their swordplay near every day of her life, had viewed half a hundred tourneys in her time, but this was something different and deadlier: a dance where the smallest misstep meant death. And as she watched, the memory of another duel in another time came back to Catelyn Stark, as vivid as if it had<em>_ been yesterday. They met in the lower bailey of Riverrun. When Brandon saw that Petyr wore only helm and breastplate and mail, he took off most of his armor. Petyr had begged her for a favor he might wear, but she had turned him away._

_Her lord father promised her to Brandon Stark, and so it was to him that she gave her token, a pale blue handscarf she had embroidered with the leaping trout of Riverrun. As she pressed it into his hand, she pleaded with him. "He is only a foolish boy, but I have loved him like a brother. It would grieve me to see him die." And her betrothed looked at her with the cool grey eyes of a Stark and promised to spare the boy who loved her. That fight was over almost as soon as it began. Brandon was a man grown, and he drove Littlefinger all the way across the bailey and down the water stair, raining steel on him with every step, until the boy was staggering and bleeding from a dozen wounds. "Yield!" he called, more than once, but Petyr would only shake his head and fight on, grimly. When the river was lapping at their ankles, Brandon finally ended it, with a brutal backhand cut that bit through Petyr's rings and leather into the soft flesh below the ribs, so deep that Catelyn was certain that the wound was mortal. He looked at her as he fell and murmured "Cat" as the bright blood came flowing out__ the wound was mortal. He looked at her as he fell and murmured "Cat" as the bright blood came flowing out between his mailed fingers. She thought she had forgotten that. That was the last time she had seen his face... until the day she was brought before him in King's Landing. _

_A fortnight passed before Littlefinger was strong enough to leave Riverrun, but her lord father forbade her to visit him in the tower where he lay abed. Lysa helped their maester nurse him; she had been softer and shyer in those days. Edmure had called on him as well, but Petyr had sent him away. Her brother had acted as Brandon's squire at the duel, and Littlefinger would not forgive that. As soon as he was strong enough to be moved, Lord Hoster Tully sent Petyr Baelish away in a closed litter, to finish his healing on the Fingers, upon the windswept jut of rock where he'd been born_

**A Game of Thrones**

* * *

><p>He watched Lyanna lean against the wall and look down into the bailey. When no one was looking, he sneaked a quick peek at her legs. She had a fine pair of ankles, for sure.<p>

"A fool," he murmured quietly when Petyr Baelish emerged, clad only in helm, breastplate and mail. Edmure Tully had squired well for Lyanna's brother and Brandon, who stood waiting for Baelish, was all in steel.

"Not so foolish as all that," she whispered, turning to him. There was a queer look in her eyes - a hungry look that gave him chills. A wolfish look, you might call it. Brandon called for the Tully boy to help him strip off his armour. Lord Hoster had come, a pair of twin blades in his hands. At the sight of them, Petyr Baelish went pale and Lyanna chuckled. Lady Lysa heard and glowered at her.

"Shut up," Ben muttered to his sister.

"I won't," she said.

"It'll even up the fight," Robert said, though he doubted it. "Your father's greatsword would have put Brandon at an advantage-" Ned threw him a withering look. "Not that he needs an advantage of course," he said quickly. He'd seen Brandon Stark fencing - he was as good with a sword as his sister was on horseback. "But the Baelish fool's less likely to get gutted this way. Sensible of Lord Hoster."

"More sensible than you know," Lyanna muttered as Lord Hoster called out the rules of engagement. A duel to the death, he called it, but Robert knew it could scarcely last longer than first blood - Brandon was not out for blood and he would be gentle on the boy. Petyr Baelish hardly seemed the type to put up a long fight - after a few licks he'd turn tail and flee like the dog he was. _His grandfather was a Braavosi sellsword, _he remembered. _Dog's blood - he'll prove the truth of that today. _Catelyn Tully, white as snow, stood apart from her sister. It would be hard for the poor girl - she'd grown up with Baelish, he knew, and Brandon would be almost a stranger to her.

_I wonder whose side she'd be on if it were me and one of her brothers, _he thought, looking at Lyanna. She had begun to hum a song. She hummed too much. Sometimes it drove him mad.

"What's that you're singing?" he asked her.

She looked at him and there was mischief in her eyes. "Lord Yronwood's Lover," she said. "Such a lovely, sad song. The Red Viper fought with a poison-tipped spear, do you recall?"

He nodded.

The swords were ringing now and she turned her attention back to the bailey. "Prince Oberyn fought only in helm and breastplate too, so that his opponent would be honour-bound to strip off most of his armour. So many nice, juicy spots to sink the lovely spear into."


	7. Rhaegar: Harrenhal

_I have come this way before, Jaime reflected a few miles further on, when they passed a deserted mill beside the lake. Weeds now grew where once the miller's daughter had smiled shyly at him, and the miller himself had shouted out, "The tourney's back the other way, ser." As if I had not known. King Aerys made a great show of Jaime's investiture. He said his vows before the king's pavilion, kneeling on the green grass in white armor while half the realm looked on. When Ser Gerold Hightower raised him up and put the white cloak about his shoulders, a roar went up that Jaime still remembered, all these years later. But that very night Aerys had turned sour, declaring that he had no need of seven Kingsguard here at Harrenhal. Jaime was commanded to return to King's Landing to guard the queen and little Prince Viserys, who'd remained behind. Even when the White Bull offered to take that duty himself, so Jaime might compete in Lord Whent's tourney, Aerys had refused. "He'll win no glory here," the king had said. "He's mine now, not Tywin's. He'll serve as I see fit. I am the king. I rule, and he'll obey."_

_That was the first time that Jaime understood. It was not his skill with sword and lance that had won him his white cloak, nor any feats of valor he'd performed against the Kingswood Brotherhood. Aerys had chosen him to spite his father, to rob Lord Tywin of his heir. Even now, all these years later, the thought was bitter. And that day, as he'd ridden south in his new white cloak to guard an empty castle, it had been almost too much to stomach. He would have ripped the cloak off then and there if he could have, but it was too late. He had said the words whilst half the realm looked on, and a Kingsguard served for life._

**A Storm of Swords**

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><p>For the first, last and only time Rhaegar Targaryen blessed his father's pet pyromancer. Rossart had succeeded where Rhaella, Elia, the Kingsguard, half the small council and Rhaegar himself had failed - he had coaxed Aerys into donning kingly robes. Left to his own devices, Aerys would have chosen the filthy rags he wore at the Red Keep, the ones he claimed had been blessed by King Baelor so that they might never hold poison.<p>

Today, seated at his place of honour in the stands at Harrenhal, under an awning of green silk, his father looked regal... as long as his six-inch-long nails were hidden from sight. His tangled white hair straggled about his hollow face but the greatfolk who knelt to pay their homage before him saw only the crown of black-gold, crusted with rubies, on his head. His black eyes glittered strangely, in a way that worried Rhaegar, but the smallfolk who crowded below them noticed only the shimmer of the goldwork and the twined onyx dragons on his velvet tunic.

They had cheered for him when the royal cavalcade made it's way to the stands - they had cheered for the son, at first, but somewhere along the way they began to cheer for his father as they had not done in many years. They were dazzled by the shining silks and the bright jewels, they cheered the prince because he handled his great destrier so gallantly, they cheered the crown. They would have cheered any man who wore it. Aerys had grimaced and acknowledged the applause, Rhaegar had put on a mummer's farce of a smile and wondered who was madder - the king or his people.

_They would do better to spit at us than to cheer us. I am not worth half of any man or woman who works the land to earn an honest penny, to buy his daily bread. _

In Rhaella's absence, Oswell's thirteen-year-old niece, Shella Whent, the lady of Harrenhal, occupied the throne next to Aerys. She was a bright-eyed little thing and today she reigned as Queen of Love and Beauty of the tourney. Her champions were her four brothers and her whitecloak uncle. She would reign but a short time as queen for the jousting would begin on the morrow and the defenders of her honour would be challenged by the greatest knights of the realm.

_It is a hard world for a woman when she must rely on a man to defend her honour, _he thought, glancing at the little girl who was squirming in her seat. Cersei Lannister had once told him that she would give anything to be a man. _Even a whoreson or a cripple or a dwarf like my brother, Tyrion, _she'd said. _And to be Jaime's equal, to have his skill at arms would be hold the seven heavens in my hands. _He could see what she meant now._ That I had been the woman and she the man, _he thought sadly. _She might have done great things like her brother. And I... I would have an excuse do sing and do nothing at all._

Arthur sat beside him and on the tier above them, Elia and her ladies. Ashara was right above him and she had taken it upon herself to provide a running commentary on all the lords and ladies who had come to present themselves before the King. She was in the highest of spirits today. Cersei had been sent to Casterly Rock and now it was Ashara's turn to reign as the fairest lady of the court.

She had already coaxed promises from her brother, Jaime Lannister, Ser Barristan who was as fond of her as though she were his daughter and a dozen young men to crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty, should they win the jousting. She had tried to sweet-talk him into pledging her the crown too, but he had laughed and told her that in the first place he would never win and in the second, even if he did win the crown would be Elia's by right. Ashara had pouted and said he should write a song about that.

"...There's the Fat Flower, fatter than ever, he looks like he's going to burst in that doubtlet. I can see his nipples. Why couldn't he afford a bolt or two more of cloth to cover that wide chest of his? His breasts are as big as my wet-nurse's. His lady mother hoards gold in her cellars, surely he's rich enough to buy a bit more of cloth. That's his lady there, did he pick her out for the girth of her stomach? Goodness, they're as matched as a pair of pigs going to the fair, pregnant pigs I should say-"

"Aunt Alerie _is _pregnant," little Lynesse Hightower said reproachfully. "She said she'd name the baby Loras if it was a boy, Margaery for a girl. They want a girl this time, they already have two boys..."

"No girls? Then who's that little girl with them? The one with those pretty brown curls?"

"Willas Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden, firstborn son to Lord Mace Tyrell and Lady Alerie Hightower," Selyse Florent, whose beard and utter lack of humour made her an easy butt for wits, recited. "He is nine years of age."

"That thing is a _boy_? Dear me, I suppoes he might turn out manly enough though. Rhaegar did but he used to look _dreadfully _like a girl. He lost a wager with Arthur once, d'you know? He had to wear this pink silk gown, all bouncing frills and crocheted roses for a day and everyone went around thinking he was some love-slave from Lys that they'd set loose in the castle."

He chuckled. He had been thirteen at the time, Ashara six. It was one of her fondest memories.

"I don't like fat men. Their faces turn shiny when it's too hot and they waddle," Ashara was saying plaintively. "Puissant brother of mine, sweet Star of the Morning, promise me that you'll never sell me off to a fat man. I want someone long and skinny like - like Jaime. Only not like Jaime at all, not too handsome, Jaime's always flirting with his sister or the serving maids-"

"Duly noted," Arthur said dryly.

Mace Tyrell and company waddled off, to be replaced by Lord Tywin's younger brother, Kevan, and his lady wife, Dorna Swyft.

"Cersei was right about that aunt of hers. She looks like a pregnant chicken, well Cersei didn't say pregnant, she only said chicken-"

"She _is _pregnant," Elia murmured. "Her first child. They hope to name it Lancel if it is a boy."

"Why is _everyone _pregnant? Next you'll be telling me you're pregnant too, Elia. And what sort of a name is Lancel Lannister anyway? 'Ser Lancel Lannister' - think of the ignominy of bearing such a name! It'd be a deterrent to anyone wanting to perform gallant deeds and noble acts of heroism. When I have a baby I'll name it something nice and short - something like Jon. When am I to have a baby and a husband of my own, O wise and glorious brother?"

"The one will follow the other," Arthur said easily. "I would recommend the husband first and the baby after that but girls will be girls... we can always marry you off to Ilyn Payne if you get yourself with child before Father gets you a husband. He won't talk back at any rate."

"And he's long and skinny," Rhaegar added. "But not too handsome. And he never flirts."

Ashara made a face at him. "Ooooooooooo - girls look! There, over there! The tall one with the black hair, at the back! Look at those juicy muscles of his, goodness isn't he _delicious_?"

Falyse Stokeworth giggled. Selyse, who had a perfect mania for houses, sigils and great names chanted, "Robert Baratheon, the Lord of Storm's End. He is seventeen years of age."

Rhaegar felt foolish that the girl had recognized his cousin before he had. The sullen boy had grown into a tall, dashing man. Two golden stags locked antlers in deadly combat on his black surcoat and his face, beneath a thatch of tousled black hair, was frank, boyish and undeniably handsome. The family to which he would ally himself by marriage milled about him - they wore the colours of snow and ice and rock. The marriage would undoubtably have been Lord Arryn's idea at first but Robert seemed well at ease with his kin-to-be.

Their faces were frozen into a look that was one part frost and three parts disdain. It was the way nearly all northmen looked when they rode south to attend tourneys or participate into frivolous southron games - at least until they had thawed a bit and realized that the Andals and the Rhoynar were not so different from the First Men at all.

_Lord Rickard Stark, _he thought, spotting the man with hair shot with white. Direwolves clawed at one another on his pearl-grey velvet cloak and his face was as hard as though carved from flint. _One day I shall sit at your hearth as Cousin Robert has. _He had always longed to go north, to see the Wall of legend and the Winterfell of song with his own eyes. _They say ice runs in place of blood in the veins of the sons of the First Men. _Looking at Rickard Stark, anyone would have believed it. _They know something of the old gods and the old laws, the laws of the freefolk. They have tasted the bite of winter and when the long winter comes, they will be the only ones ready among us to face it. _

"Goodness me, isn't that Cat Tully with them? And Lysa, dear me, who put Lysa in _pink? _She looks like a pomegranate!"

"Is Lysa to be married to him?" Mariya Darry asked curiously. "The one with those lovely muscles? I heard they had to break off the marriage betwixt her and Ser Jaime... such luck! Here's little Lysa Tully, scarce thirteen, twice betrothed to two beautiful men and here's me at seventeen promised to a _Frey_."

"Wasn't Lysa betrothed to a northman?"

"No, that was Cat," Ashara said. "He had a wolf for his sigil, I remember, but I'm blessed if I can remember his name. Something sparkly... Spark? Snark? Dark?"

"Stark," Selyse said shortly. "You ought to know what the direwolf stands for by now, Ashara."

"Direwolf? I thought 'twas but a common wolf. Well I'm hopeless at those tricksy names, especially the northern ones." Ashara's world began at Sunspear and ended at Lannisport. If she were to be believed, giants and cannibals lurked in haunted forests and ice rivers just north of the Neck. "Viserys is better at this sort of thing than me and he's _six. _But then, his father lets him have cinnamon rolls if he can remember them all. Now if my father had done that I'd be quite as clever."

Rhaegar was about to point out that memorizing the names of the high houses and their sigils was a pointless waste of time and energy, that the feudal structure they existed in would one day be pulled down by the smallfolks' revolution, similar to the Defiance of Duskendale, only larger and bloodier and longer-lasting in scope and effect... before he thought better of it.

"Catelyn is betrothed to the heir to Winterfell, Brandon Stark," Selyse said primly.

"I was once betrothed to Cat's uncle. Ser Brynden the Blackfish," Bethany Redwyne murmured dreamily. "But he wouldn't have me for some reason... and you needn't make those sheep's eyes at Lord Baratheon, Ashara. I hear that he's engaged to the sister, the Lady Lyanna Stark. Look, that must be her right next to him."

"That skinny little stick?" Mariya sniffed. "Some girls have _all _the luck..."

"Lord Baratheon is rather a large man," Elia said mildly. "It would be easy to appear slight next to him... the girl seems tall enough to me."

"She has such a little waist," Selyse observed. "And such beautiful hair, see the way it shines?"

"_Everyone's _hair is beautiful compared to yours, Selyse," Lynesse said haughtily. Lynesse was a golden-haired little beauty who idolized Cersei and took after her in looks and temperament. Selyse... did not. "I say she's too pale and her face is too long and pointy. I never liked the northern colouring at all."

"She has a sweet face," Elia murmured. "So fresh."

"She's not a peach," Bethany said dryly. "Though she does seem rather young... how old do you think she is?"

"Her legs are eighteen and her face is twelve," Ashara said succinctly. "And her breasts and her hips are ten."

"She's not pretty enough for him," Lynesse said petulantly. "Her colouring is all off. He ought to have a fairer bride, a _golden _bride." Lynesse Hightower had hair like spun gold.

"Good for us that she's not pretty," Ashara said brightly. "Maybe he'll flirt with us. Well not you, Lynesse, you're eleven and he doesn't look like a craddle-robber but you never can say... maybe you'll be lucky and he'll catch you and kiss you in the dark like Jaime did-"

"He took me for his sister!" Lynesse protested. "When I made him aware of his mistake he begged my pardon in the most gentlemanly manner possible."

"Why'd you make him aware at all, you little ninny?" Mariya demanded. "You could have let him go on kissing you and he might have compromised you and then you'd have a man on your hands with no trouble at all. Why do the gods shower luck on silly chits like you and never on me?"

"_Who _kisses their sister on the mouth, I wonder?" Ashara asked. "Arthur doesn't kiss me on the mouth. His Grace and Her Grace don't and they're _married. _No, Jaime's a craddle-robber I'm sure. Why'd he join the Kingsguard if not to hide his unnatural lusts? Either he's a monster of indecent appetites or he's gelded or he's a woman. He _could _be a woman, you know, he's so very pretty..."

_Don't let the Lannisters catch you saying that. They always pay their debts._

"Your brother is in the Kingsguard," Arthur murmured.

"My brother's vainer than Cersei and Lynesse put together," Ashara said crisply. "He thinks he looks pretty in white, that's all. All that Morning Star business. If men called him Darkstar he'd wear a black cloak and join the Night's Watch."

"Oh do shut up, Ashara you fool," Mariya snapped. "I want to hear what Lord Baratheon is saying."

Robert was kneeling before the makeshift throne, his slender bride-to-be at his side. _A sweet child_, Rhaegar decided. There was laughter and a look of wonder in her wide grey eyes and her smile was as warm as summer. When she noticed him looking, her smile grew even wider. He gave her a tiny smile back in response, to put her at her ease. _There is little of winter in this one._ Her lord father knelt behind her and Rhaegar turned his attention to him - the Warden of the North fascinated him more than the little girl.

"Cousin Robert." Aerys studied him. There was a pregnant pause and Rhaegar offered a silent prayer to whatever gods prowled the skies that his father would behave himself. _Let him not think of treason. Let him not think of fire. That is all I ask. _"You look like a bear." Rhaegar breathed more freely though Robert had flushed. "A big, hairy black bear. So you've brought your maiden fair with you, have you? Well what am I to do with her? Service her with honey as they do in the song?" Ashara giggled.

"Stand up, you two. Seven hells, girl, you're a beanstalk aren't you? How old are you, eh?"

She kept her eyes low but her voice was not as meek as it should have been. "Four and ten, if it please Your Grace."

Aerys snorted. "And why should it please me? You're not here to please me, you're here to please yon hairy bear. Four and ten... well, you'll grow some more then, won't you? I'd advise you to do your growing in the hips, not in the legs... you Baratheon men all have such revolting taste. I remember your father, he ran off with some girl from Greenshit - Greencastle they called it, but I say Greenshit, all swamps and marshes and lizard-lions, I remember... nothing would do for Steffon but I must carry his little Estermont naked up to the bridal bed. But she had hips, I'll grant you that, big, strong hips and she popped you out within the year. Oh Steffon was pleased as punch, not yet twenty and already a big, strong squalling son to his name... have you any sons of your own yet, boy?"

"No, Your Grace."

Aerys grunted. "You're lying then. You look the whoring sort - why're you taking that milk-faced little sop at all? She'll be dowered in the northern honour and ice and that's a mighty cold bride to have. Does she have your bastard growing in her belly, eh?"

Lord Stark's face darkened but Aerys prattled blithely on. "Well, no matter if she does, she doesn't look the type to carry a child to term and mayhap she'll die and spare you a lot of trouble. Jenny wasn't the type either and she had this girl's look, I remember..."

_Jenny of Oldstones, _Rhaegar thought. She had been his father's Uncle Duncan's common-born lover. Jenny of Oldstones and her Prince of Dragonflies - there was a song about them that his mother had often sung to him when he was a child. The girl with stars in her eyes and a laugh like the music of the bells... he had loved it. _She died at Summerhall on the day that I as born and so the throne passed to my grandfather Jaehaerys. Duncan loved the maid so much that he would never take a wife, and so he bore no sons to carry on his name. _

"Well, what d'you want me to say, hmm? You never asked me for advice on marrying, you think you're a man grown because you're seventeen, eh? Should I bless your marriage with many sons or curse it with barrenness? I can do both, I'm a king. I'm a god." Aerys' voice rose but it was not kingly. It was only the irritable squall of a sour old man.

"It's all one and the same to me, well, no it's not. It would have been better if Cassana popped out a bonny little girl for Steffon in place of you and your troublesome brothers. Hairy big boys like you, you're only trouble. Now if you'd been a girl, my Rhaegar would never have lacked for a bride, but you weren't, more's the pity. Well, I bless you and your ill-made marriage with a boy or two and many, many pretty daughters... we'll marry one of them to Viserys, shall we? Yes, that'll do..." So grumbling, Aerys waved them off.

Elia leaned towards Rhaegar and whispered, "Should I invite the Stark girl to join my companions? If she's to be wed to Robert, it would only be the right thing to do, the Baratheons are your closest kin."

Rhaegar had no patience with courtly etiquette or conventions. "Do what you think best."

"Run and invite her and the Tullys to join us tomorrow," Elia whispered to Ashara.

The sun was low in the sky by the time the long train of nobles waiting to be announced and acknowledged had ended. Half the great houses of the realm clustered in the shaded galleries overlooking the tilting field when Aerys stood up. As one, the Kingsguard rose. It was time.

"We are gathered here today," Aerys announced as solemnly as a mummer, "To welcome a new star, a new jewel to the shining crown that we call our Kingsguard, our sacred whitecloaks...'

His royal father had a flair for histrionics. So did his mother, come to think of it. His voice was deep and kingly, he had quite shed his petulance in his eagerness to play his part. His garments rich and royal and the setting darkness lent a softness and grace to his wild face. He had once been charming and beloved. At times like this, it was not easy to remember that he was as mad as a dog.

Rhaegar studied Lord Stark's face. What did he make of his pomp, this pageantry? Did it amuse him? Did he resent it? _The Starks were once Kings of the North. Perhaps these new alliances are only stepping stones to raising a second kingdom. _He knew that his father thought it so. He had only come to Harrenhal because of his mortal fear that his son had chosen the tourney as a ploy to gather as many great lords about him as he could, to forment treason. _As though I could not rise against without help. I could lift up my finger in Maegor's Holdfast, with nary a second thought and it would be done. Does he truly think himself so well-loved? _

Well, he did not grudge the north to the northmen if they wanted it. _If they govern in peace, they are welcome to call themselves kings or lords as they please. _It would be interesting to treat with Lord Stark as one king to another, to go north as a guest instead of an overlord. _Perhaps the Wall will stand better if it is in the hands of the north... Winterfell has stood against the wildlings and the winters for thousands of years, but that was when the Starks called themselves Kings of the North. _

Jaime Lannister knelt before Aerys, so young and handsome that Rhaegar could hear many girls' hearts breaking at the thought that he would soon don the white cloak. His voice was steady and clear as he recited the vows to serve the king and the realm, to hold faith and honour, the vows that sounded so similar to wedding vows.

_My father's crutch, _Rhaegar thought sadly. _Poor boy, he dreams of glory. He knows not what he faces. _

The King threw the cloak of white velvet over Tywin Lannister's son himself and pinned the white-gold lion's badge. A cheer rose and Rhaegar joined in the applause, though with misgivings.

_And Arthur knighted this boy not four moons hence. Fifteen years old, he's the youngest knight to ever don a whitecloak. Even Barristan was sixteen. He swears such a deep oath. Does he have the faintest idea of what he's doing? Is this but another child's game to him?_

"Rise as a sworn brother and knight of the Kingsguard."

The White Bull raised Jaime to his feet, almost tenderly. The knights of the Kingsguard came forth, one by one, to give him the ceremonial kiss on the cheek and welcome him as a new brother with the old words that King Aenys the Weak had first coined for the sacred seven. The realm held it's breath and Jaime Lannister blushed as prettily as his sister might have. Rhaegar had just begun to breathe more freely when the disaster he had expected struck.

"There, now that's done," Aerys grunted. Jaime towered over the shrunken old man and Aerys had to look up to him. Doubtless, this had done nothing for his temper. "Now I've mumbled the words over your thick head and those long golden curls of yours, you're mine now." Ashara sniggered behind her hand. "We have seven among us today, have we? Seven's too many, I say, an ungodly number. We don't need seven, I'll have but six with me. My queen and my prince are left at the Red Keep, with naught but servants to attend them."

_What am I? A bastard? _Rhaegar thought.

"And so you'll be off on your way, boy, you're to go to the Red Keep and keep them safe. Yes, that's what you'll do..." Aerys cackled as Jaime's face turned as white as his cloak. Rhaegar felt trapped, helpless. _I should do something, _he thought uncertainly. _But what? I might do the wrong thing, I might provoke him, you never can tell..._

Gerold Hightower spared him the need to interfere. "Your Grace." The White Bull knelt and said, _"_Ser Jaime is but newly a brother to us, still more green than white. Would it not be fitter if I were to hasten to the Red Keep, to attend to Her Grace and the little prince?"

Aerys sniffed. "No," he said shortly. "_I'm _the King and that's my heir over there. I won't have my best knight with a woman and a child of no account."

"Your Grace, if you will but permit Ser Jaime to attend this tourney, I will be gone and come back before you know it, just after the jousting..." Rhaegar winced. That was clumsily done - it would only serve to inflame Aerys. _Ser Gerold loves the boy like a son - that is why he has taken leave of his senses._

Aerys seemed to consider. "That is kind of you, Ser Gerold," he said. "The boy is more green than white, just as you said. Boys will be boys, won't they? They dream of honour, dream of glory... I did. You did. We all did. And he's such a strong lance, such a fine seat on his horse... half the wagers are on him, aren't they?"

"They are, Your Grace."

Aerys chuckled. "How delightful." For a moment, Rhaegar thought that his father had reconsidered, that he had seen reason - but he should have remembered that he was dealing with a madman. Aerys' face turned purple and he bent down to bellow in Ser Gerold's face. "He'll win no glory here! He's mine now, not Tywin's. He'll serve as I see fit. I am the king. I rule, and he'll obey!"

Ser Gerold remained on his knees, his face flecked with spittle, and Jaime's face was the colour of chalk. For a moment, Rhaegar feared that the rash boy would do something but then he bowed stiffly and said, "As my liege commands. I am yours, to serve you as you will, for life."

Aerys chuckled and patted his shoulder. "Good boy," he said, almost fondly. "I knew you'd come around, I knew it..." And so cackling, he wheeled around and left. _  
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**A/N: I've always imagined Aerys to be somewhat Walder-Freyish. Shella Whent is said to be the Lady of Harrenhal during the War of the Five Kings. I like to think that she was Ser Oswell's niece, the titular Queen during the first day of the tourney.  
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	8. Elia: Kingspyre Tower

_"Harrenhal." Every child of the Trident knew the tales told of Harrenhal, the vast fortress that King Harren the Black had raised beside the waters__ of Gods Eye three hundred years past, when the Seven Kingdoms had been seven kingdoms, and the riverlands were ruled by the ironmen from__ the islands. In his pride, Harren had desired the highest hall and tallest towers in al Westeros. Forty years it had taken, rising like a great shadow on__ the shore of the lake while Harren's armies plundered his neighbors for stone, lumber, gold, and workers._

_Thousands of captives died in his quarries, chained to his sledges, or laboring on his five colossal towers. Men froze by winter and sweltered in__ summer. Weirwoods that had stood three thousand years were cut down for beams and rafters. Harren had beggared the riverlands and the__ Iron Islands alike to ornament his dream. And when at last Harrenhal stood complete, on the very day King Harren took up residence, Aegon the__ Conqueror had come ashore at King's Landing._

_Catelyn could remember hearing Old Nan tell the story to her own children, back at Winterfell. "And King Harren learned that thick walls and high__ towers are small use against dragons," the tale always ended. "For dragons fly." Harren and all his line had perished in the fires that engulfed his__ monstrous fortress, and every house that held Harrenhal since had come to misfortune. Strong it might be, but it was a dark place, and cursed._

**- A Clash of Kings**

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><p><em>It would be better once they got to Harrenhal, the captives told each other, but Arya was not so certain. She remembered Old Nan's stories of the castle built on fear. Harren the Black had mixed human blood in the mortar, Nan used to say, dropping her voice so the children would need to lean close to hear, but Aegon's dragons had roasted Harren and all his sons within their great walls of stone. Arya chewed her lip as she walked along on feet grown hard with callus. It would not be much longer, she told herself; those towers could not be more than a few miles off.<em>

_Yet they walked all that day and most of the next before at last they reached the fringes of Lord Tywin's army, encamped west of the castle amidst the scorched remains of a town. Harrenhal was deceptive from afar, because it was so huge. Its colossal curtain walls rose beside the lake, sheer and sudden as mountain cliffs, while atop their battlements the rows of wood-and-iron scorpions looked as small as the bugs for which they were named._

_The stink of the Lannister host reached Arya wel before she could make out the devices on the banners that sprouted along the lakeshore, atop the pavilions of the westermen. From the smell, Arya could tel that Lord Tywin had been here some time. The latrines that ringed the encampment were overflowing and swarming with flies, and she saw faint greenish fuzz on many of the sharpened stakes that protected the perimeters._

_Harrenhal's gatehouse, itself as large as Winterfell's Great Keep, was as scarred as it was massive, its stones fissured and discolored. From outside, only the tops of five immense towers could be seen beyond the wal s. The shortest of them was half again as tall as the highest tower in Winterfell, but they did not soar the way a proper tower did. Arya thought they looked like some old man's gnarled, knuckly fingers groping after a passing cloud. She remembered Nan telling how the stone had melted and flowed like candlewax down the steps and in the windows, glowing a sullen searing red as it sought out Harren where he hid. Arya could believe every word; each tower was more grotesque and misshapen than the last, lumpy and runneled and cracked._

_"I don't want to go there," Hot Pie squeaked as Harrenhal opened its gates to them. "There's ghosts in there."_

_Chiswyck heard him, but for once he only smiled. "Baker boy, here's your choice. Come join the ghosts, or be one."_

**- A Clash of Kings  
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><p>She had never beheld a more fearsome sight.<p>

Oberyn had travelled widely in the Free Cities. He had been taken to Braavos by their lord father, the only true Free City built as it was by slaves, when he was five. He said that the first time they had come into the Harbour and heard the Giant's roar he had almost shat his breeches.

Doran had wooed and won his bride in Norvos. He said there was nothing as awe-inspiring as the sight of R'hllor's temples, stretching their bloody lances up to the sky, nothing as fearsome as the thunder of the pealing bells all through the city and the cries of the faithful when the nightfires were lit every dusk. They give a child to the fires once a year, he had told her.

_To keep the long winter and it's ice demons at bay, for nothing is as sweet to the Lord of Light than the innocent, than a sacrifice willingly offered. It is a festival day for them, the bears dance down the Sinner's Steps and hippocrass and red wine flow from the public fountains. Women of the poorer sort don their best dresses and it is said to be a most auspicious day for weddings and births. That is what is most terrible about it, in the midst of such a cruel death they celebrate life._

Lady Mellario had never seen anything out of place about it. It had been her way of life and she could never understand her lord husband's qualms about such a holy sacrifice, though she loved him with all her heart.

Elia was a Dornish princess. One day she would be a Targaryen queen. It would never fall to her lot to see such visions as her brothers had been granted, though she knew Rhaegar longed to travel through the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. As she stood on the parapets of the Kingspyre, highest of Harrenhal's towers, and looked down she thought that she would not care to see anything more terrible.

From here, she could see what seemed to be all of the Riverlands, castles and keeps, so many of them, nestled by hills and rivers. Harrenhal itself looked down on the hard, glittering waters of the God's Eye. Passing strange tales were told of the Isle of Faces which lay within it, of wargs and greenseers and the vanished Children of the Forest. Bedtales, she might have dismissed them, but Rhaegar had said there was more than met the eye. It was near enough to Summerhall where he often went, why had he never uncovered the mysteries of that isle, she had once asked him.

_Because there are some places where even dragons fear to tread,_ he had told her, with a smile that had revealed nothing._ There are some places which even I hold sacred though you think me the worst kind of infidel, my love._

It had brought ill luck to every noble family that had lived here, this demon castle. From Harren, mad in his pride, to the blood-drinking Lothstons who would hold feasts of human flesh within the walls. Elia rather wondered that the Whents dared hold this questionable seat, that they dared invite the gods' notice so far as to hold such a grand tourney here. It was just asking for trouble, in her opinion, though to be sure she had no courage to speak of, even for a woman.

_I would stay small and low,_ she thought_, I would want to keep safe above else if I were them. I would hide from kings and gods. That is the happiest kind of life, to be so low that none might notice you, so small that it would not matter at all if you failed._

She had failed in her duty and the ache of it felt as sore as the pain that had wracked her body after Rhaenys' birth. She had been bedridden for six months afterwards but that pain could not compare to this one, this shame.

The grounds were checkered squares of colour, patched by darkness in the places where the shadows of the mammoth towers fell. The silver thread of a stream ran through the godswood that was more forest than wood. Men as tiny as ants prowled the curtain walls, those below them who made merry at the pavilions were but specks of dust. _It is a kingdom unto itself,_ she thought and then decided,_ no, it is greater still. It is a world. Is this how the gods must feel when they look down on their creations? Terribly, terribly mortal?_

_The dragon must have three heads, _she thought dully. _And I shall bear no other living child._

She rested her elbows on the walls. It was a great fall. Cersei Lannister would have been happy to give her the push. So would Queen Rhaella, come to think of it. She loved her son too well, Elia knew, though she managed to conceal it. _But then she is a Targaryen. It cannot be called unnatural in her - the dragonriders would match brother to sister and at times, mother to son, to keep their bloodlines pure so that their dragons would know them by the smell of their shared blood and be quickly tamed._

She had bidden her ladies stand some distance from her, she would look upon this view alone and pretend to be a god. Their idle chatter still reached her. The Tully girls and young Lord Robert's betrothed had joined them today. Lysa and Catelyn were as sweet and tractable as ever but the Stark girl was something else - she was as rude as a dowager, secure in her position, and wilful as a toddler. It was almost as though she resented being made to join the princess's retinue at the price of her own freedom, though many would have accounted it a great honour.

"My maid Bella said that there's a queer old eastern woman who's set up shop in a caravan," Ashara was saying. "She sucks the blood off your finger and tells your fortune for you, and for just a penny too. Do let's go and see her, I'm simply dying to be told the name of the puissant lord that I'm to be wed to."

Elia smiled. Puissant was Ashara's favourite word of the month - she had taken it off Ser Barristan whose language was entirely too courtly.

Lyanna Stark's voice was very sour as she said, "Bloodmagic is said to be the oldest and blackest of the sorcerer's arts. It is not to be so lightly taken, my lady. Indeed it is a sort of blasphemy against the gods to make mock of it."

"Your gods," Ashara said very pertly. "I believe in the Seven and they are against all manner of sorcery, from bloodmagic to greenseeing."

"Of course they are," Lyanna said disdainfully. "They're not real gods are they? Just false idols you shape out of gold and clay, pretty things you like to look at and pretend you're actually praying." Evidently the girl was most devout - or simply contrary for the sake of being contrary. It was hard to tell.

Unexpectedly little Lysa who was so shy and docile, piped up. "You pray to a tree. How is that worse than praying to a statue?"

"It's not just a tree, you silly chit. It's a weirwood and the Children of the Forest carved faces into their heart trees so that they might look through time-"

"Surely you don't believe in the Children of the Forest?" Mariya Darry laughed. "My, aren't you quite natural. How you will charm young Lord Baratheon. Every man wants an innocent virgin in his bridal bed but you are quite a child."

"Well at least I do charm him," Lyanna said with poisonous sweetness. "I'm pretty enough, aren't I? Unlike you. Oh we laughed over you last night, Lady Mariya, Robert and I. You needn't flash your ankles in that vulgar way at him when you dance - they're so thick that only a giant might find them arousing. But then Freys can't be choosers. There are so very many of them that they must be content with pickings and leavings."

Not content with that, she moved on to Lynesse Hightower, ignoring the other girls' gasps. " And you, you little brat, how old d'you think you are? If I have to hear you squeak about lovers once again, I swear I'll choke the breath out of that reedlike throat of yours - it isn't sweet and endearing. It's annoying. Lady Selyse, for the last time, I do not care to know to which of the Fossoways Lord Tyrell's sister is wed to nor what name Lord Hewitt will care to bestow upon his heir. If I were you, I'd be plucking hairs off my chin instead of plucking my head in another book. Or I would be learning whore's tricks - no man in his right senses would lie with you, it would be a horror even in the dark but if you learnt to use your mouth to better advantage than reciting bone-dry facts then perhaps..."

Ashara, who would laugh at anything, giggled. "I think we shall get along capitally, Lady Lyanna," she said amiably. "With your sweet tongue and my charm, we shall conquer all seven heavens one by one. And when we are quite through with them, we shall move on to your dear trees."

Lyanna sounded very vexed as she snapped, "And why should I care if we get along capitally or not? I do not think that I will ever see you after this tourney is over unless you live an old maid for the rest of your life, waiting on the princess. The gods know you're old enough to be betrothed but you're still unspoken for."

"Oh I fancy I shall pick a husband for myself if my father doesn't care enough to do it for me," Ashara said dryly. "In a pinch dear old Ser Barristan should do."

"He's a White Knight!" protested Mariya, very shocked.

"All the better," Ashara said brightly. "We shall be the scandal of the season, Grandfather White-as-Winter and a maid as fresh and fair as spring. We shall run away to Norvos and train dancing bears and then naturally, a Lyseni corsair king will lay his eyes upon me and take me for his own. After he has had his way with me in all the vile and unspeakable ways the Lyseni are capable, seven sighs and seven sucks and all that, he shall sacrifice me to the waves and I shall emerge from the sea foam as a mermaid, in the way of the Ironborn for what is dead can never die. Then I shall swim to Storm's End and have my dirty way with sweet Lady Lyanna's sons, all seven of them, aye, all together at once, just like the Storm Kings of old mated with mermaids. And my princess will sigh and shake her head, just as she is doing now."

Elia _was_. She turned, laughing. "You have me there," she had to admit, smiling. "I do not know what it is about your idle chatter that captivates me so, for there is neither wit nor wisdom in it."

"We have fools to be witty for us and you and Prince Rhaegar to be good and wise," Ashara said merrily. "But we have only one of me, who is neither wise nor witty but very, very charming. I believe I shall snare your betrothed, Lady Lyanna, for my ankles are quite as trim as yours and I have the sweeter temper."

"No man worth the name prefers a woman with a sweet temper," Lyanna said grandly, as though she knew much and more of men. "Just as no man of spirit would ride a broken filly."

"And you are quite the savage," Mariya said sharply. "Most men would delight in you, my lady. Judging from your words, some must surely have."

Lyanna grinned cheekily. "We follow the old ways in the north," she said sweetly. "The custom of the first night - the lord takes a new-made bride to his bed before her husband can savour her. And while he takes his pleasure from her fresh, buxom body the lady of the castle enjoys the services of her husband-to-be. That way they are both well and truly broken in. We do not care to let our smallfolk ride mounts too spirited."

The girls were well and truly letting their mouths run away with them. Queen Rhaella would never have permitted such bawdy talk. Elia knew she was but a poor chaperone but she couldn't help but enjoy herself - and besides, she was always shy about exerting her will. To distract them, she clapped her hands together and said, "Ladies, please. Trifling quarrels and petty rivalries add seasoning to dull days spent sewing in galleries. They are unworthy of such a grand tourney, of a day as merry as this one ought to be by rights."

She could almost hear Ashara clicking her tongue in impatience at the floridness of her words. This was how a queen ought to speak, this was how her good mother spoke in truth and there were no japes made about her. Queen Rhaella was stately, ever regal, but Elia could never shake off the thought that she was but a pale shadow of the woman, that she was always trying too hard and falling too short.

"Let us make haste and see what Harrenhal has to offer us," Elia said. "Come, my ladies." She swept forwards and the girls' gowns rustled like autumn leaves as they sank into curtseys.

Uncle Lewyn stood in attendance upon her today. He held out his arm for her with a kind smile. Dear Uncle Lewyn, he had been her first ally in King's Landing and even now she trusted him most of all the knights of the Kingsguard, good and honourable though they were. They were her sworn swords but their first allegiance would never be to her but to their king, be he mad or sane. They were not bound to her in blood as Loreza of Dorne's brother was.

It would be a long climb down but Elia was sure she could manage it. She hoped.

"_No man's gold was from them, nor any maiden's hand. Oh, the brothers of the Kingswood, that fearsome outlaw band._" It was Lyanna Stark, warbling as blithely as a bird.

Elia smiled to remember the song. "I was part of the princess's honour guard when she was brought to King's Landing," Ashara was saying. "Her Grace sent me herself, so that she might have a familiar Dornish face to cheer her by, though I hadn't been in Dorne since I was a child. I was raised at court you know, after my lady mother died."

"And I suppose you cheered her," Lyanna said, sounding cross that her song had been interrupted. "Though the gods only know how."

"She didn't need any cheering. We were so busy being attacked that she didn't have time at all to mope."

"Attacked?"

Several of the girls squealed in impatience. "Oh not that story _again_, Ashara! We've heard it half-a-hundred times, how very brave you were, how very handsome they were-"

"Well Lady Lyanna hasn't heard it," Ashara said. "And I consider it my duty to warn her of what a perilous place the Kingswood can be if one doesn't take care - she might find herself less fond of the godswood if I explain it quite clearly to her. I shall have saved her soul from the trees and the Seven shall smile down upon me."

She began the story that she had, in truth, told half-a-hundred times. Elia did not mind, it had been the most exciting time of her life though she would not care to repeat such an was a dull, placid soul she knew - she could do well enough without adventures.

The Dornish retinue had been waylaid in the Kingswood by the fearsome Kingswood Brotherhood, that jolly band of outlaws forever immortalized in song. They had feathered the White Bull with arrows and run off with the gold and gems that had been her dower. In the midst of all the confusion, her litter had been separated from the main train and there had been one, stout and stoatish with a face like a harvest moon, who had parted the yellow silk curtains to steal a kiss from her lips.

Judging from the lack of pert remarks, Lady Lyanna appeared quite fascinated by all the gore and bloodshed in Ashara's story. Elia was reminded vividly of little Viserys. Suddenly she almost wished that she were a child like him so that she might be carried down the stairs. It was exhausting. It was shameful. Princesses did not faint while climbing down from towers.

It was weak and unworthy of her. She tried to distract herself by remembering how the Brotherhood had met their end, not four moons before. It had been Arthur Dayne's work and the Lannister boy had been knighted after he distinguished himself on the field. Rhaegar had been very dark in his mood afterwards, he had said something and she had tried to offer him comfort as best as she could. But what he had said she could not remember, it was slipping from her mind try as she might to remember it.

_It was only four moons ago, _she thought, trying to take a deep breath. The stairs seemed to tilt and shift, the edges of the hard stone walls were blurred. _Only four moons ago, I should be able to remember what he said. He went to Summerhall after it had all died down and Rhaenys said her first words while he was away. And he said... Rhaegar said... _

She gasped at the sudden lance of pain in her side and then the world went black.

When she came to, she was curled up in her uncle's arms like a pitiful little rag doll. She was hemmed in by the bright silks of the girls' gowns, they peeped down at her with cruel eyes that would not forget. Ashara was on one side of her, the Stark girl on the other held her hand.

"You fainted, Your Highness," she said softly.

"Yes," Elia said. As though she needed telling. There was bile in her mouth, she could gladly have thrown up on this girl, young and pretty and hardy as she was. "Yes, I think I did." And she let herself be scooped up again and carried down like a child, like an invalid. Like a woman with one foot already in the grave, a woman of no account at all.

* * *

><p><em>I was going to be a queen. Why should a queen be afraid of some hideous old woman?<em>

**- A Feast for Crows**

* * *

><p>She was a wisp of a woman, so bent and worn by the years that she might have passed for the Crone herself. Her croak was flavoured by the accents of the East but there was a touch of a Lannisport twang about it as well.<p>

She called herself _maegi_, the Eastern word for sorceress, and swore that she could see your morrows in a drop of blood.

"I have been waiting to see you," she said, her face alive with malice. "Lady Princess." She bobbed a shallow curtsey and unbidden, grasped Elia's arm. "Of my daughter's line, I shall have a queen. I have seen two queens already and I should like to see a third."

Her eyes had wandered to Ashara. "I never forget a face," she said sagely. "And yours is such a pretty one that there'd be few who might not remember it, m'lady. Six years it's been and you were but a child then when I peeped up to look into the royal gallery at the fresh little maids who waited on the dragon queen. The little lioness was your age and she braved the terrors of the night to face me."

Ashara looked uncertain - an expression that was strange on her face. "You mean the tourney at Lannisport?"

But the woman had lost all interest in her. For the first time in her life, Selyse Florent was the centre of attention. "What a face you have on you, m'lady," she said, as though in wonder. "You reek too much of life when there is death all around us."

She turned to the Tully girls who were noted for their fire-red hair. "Chilly eyes," she observed, turning to Catelyn. "Like stone. And that's your sister, eh? Little one, yours are like the ice wind that howls through mountain and vale in winter." Lynesse Hightower peered at her in fascination and the old woman chuckled when she saw. "Come closer, pretty child. I will not hurt you - not much. My, my aren't you the beauty. As beautiful as a pleasure-loving, faithless whore."

"A copper for you and have done with it," Mariya Darry said impatiently. Without being asked, she placed herself squarely in the chair before the maegi's table with the crystal globes on it.

The maegi laughed. It was harsh and cruel and sent shivers down Elia's spine. "Foolish chit," she said witheringly. "Do you think I do this for your money?" She swept the coin off the table in magnificent disdain. "I have enough for me and mine, so much that it shames my lordly son to see his old mother hell-bent on riding to Harrenhal. But I never cared for lords nor queen when I was most alive and now that I am all but dead, why, it makes less matter to me than it ever did. I came for my own amusement, to see the play of life for the last time with mine own eyes, for soon they must shut and there is no mirth nor mischief worked in R'hllor's paradise, only stillness."

"A demon-worshipper," Lyanna muttered, but so low that the old woman did not catch her words.

"You need a price of your own to pay for my prophecies," the maegi said, looking down at Lady Mariya. "What have you to offer me, girl? Your sorest troubles might amount to no more than a handful of girls and only the one son to follow your lord husband. What will be your secret shames? A slattern for a daughter who's lain with every stableboy in the castle? A pig for another daughter, sold for silver?"

She turned to Elia. "I have been waiting for you," she repeated again. "Come, give me your hand."

"No," Elia said. She forced herself to smile but her voice was firm. "No, thank you."

"Come, Highness." The woman was clearly impatient. "It will not hurt."

"Perhaps it will not hurt you," Elia said, "But it would hurt me a great deal. I do not care to look into my fate, whether ill or good, it is spun either way and there is naught that I can do to change it."

There were tales told of those who dared meddle with fate and came to more grievous ends than they would have if they had left well alone. Rhaegar believed in fate and prophecy as keenly as lesser men believed in their gods, indeed it was the rock on which his life was built. Who was she to question his wisdom?

The woman threw her a shrewd look. "Fates can be changed to suit men, Lady Princess. Only a fool would believe otherwise."

Elia only shook her head and took a step back. She feared that she might let herself be drawn in by the woman. "It is sorcery such as I dare not meddle in either way," she said decidedly. She repeated the Stark girl's words, "Bloodmagic ought never to be taken lightly."

The maegi cackled, her eyes lighting up queerly. "Why you're a wiser woman than I thought you to be after all," she said. "Queens and princesses ought not take it lightly, though that pretty child would never believe me if I told her. Still wouldn't if she saw me today, I make no doubt. No matter. Perhaps one of these chits in waiting will have a good hand for me. Now then."

The chits in waiting lined up to have their fortunes told, as eager as a basketful of puppies. Fearing temptation, Elia stepped outside the caravan where the air was cooler and not so tempered with spices to cloud the mind and heat the blood. Not entirely to her surprise, Lady Lyanna followed her out.

A pretty maid, Elia thought, slim and supple like a young weirwood. She wore a gown of palest blue silk, strewn with roses. The leaves were of silver and gold thread, the petals seed-pearls. Her long hair had been plaited down her back, but for the leaves of beaten silver it was as simple a style as a village maid might wear. It suited her.

"My father's choice," Lyanna said, making a face and pinching the rich material of her gown. "I thought it too grand to be worn by day but he said that I would feel a beggar among all the fine ladies of the court if I did not take pains with my attire."

Elia, her silken gown swirling with all the colours of flame and sunset - reds and golds and burnt oranges - had to agree. "We dress too finely, in truth," she said. "I would prefer something simpler but we are on show for the benefit of the realm and we must look the part. Come walk with me." She held out her arm and Lyanna took it.

"I did not think that you would care to walk with me, Your Highness," the girl said presently. "I went out of my way to be as rude to you as I possibly could." She was as awkward as a colt but then she was very young. And then there was something very engaging about her frankness. "I- I rather hoped that you would dismiss me from your attending on you though the Tullys would bury me alive if they knew what I was up to."

Elia laughed. "Catelyn would freeze you to death with one look from her eyes. She is well-fitted for the north for she is the very soul of cold, rigid correctness."

"And Lysa? Would she scald me to death with her tongue?"

Elia shook her head. "She is devious," she said. "She does not say much but she always plots in secret. When she is caught, she hides and hopes that everyone will forget her but usually she is quite clever at covering up her misdeeds." It was a hard opinion of a thirteen-year-old girl but then it was only the truth. Besides Lysa was amply dowered in other fine qualities - she could be sweet and her heart was a loving one though it had been soured by perpetually being in her more accomplished sister's shadow.

_When they are women wed and far from eachother, they will love eachother more. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. _

"You seem to know much of them, my lady."

"They were my companions for a year," Elia said calmly. "And I rather fancy studying characters - it is a little quirk of mine."

"Oh?" Lyanna's eyebrows shot up. "What d'you make of mine then?" she asked imperiously.

Elia smiled mischievously. "A magician never reveals his tricks, child, haven't you been told that often enough?"

"Oh aye," the girl said unmoved. "And neither does a charlatan until he is unmasked."

"Unmask me if you dare."

"I cannot if you will not offer your opinion of me."

"But I hardly know you at all, Lady Lyanna. I have not spent even a day in your company."

"You would not need to. Everyone tells me I'm hopelessly shallow and spoiled."

"Oh my. That is sad. Are you?"

Lyanna Stark looked thoughtful, as though she had never considered that. As though she had never needed to. "That's what everyone says," she said slowly. "Shallow. Spoiled. Stupid. Sweet when I have a mind to be." She ticked them off her fingers, like a little girl who had just learnt to count. "Jealous. Possessive. Vengeful." She gave a hopeless shrug. "I do not know."

"Colourful. You seem to be made up of many parts."

Lyanna shook her head. "Oh no," she said, terribly in earnest. "Just ordinary. No, nothing out of the ordinary in fact. I am like everyone else, better than many I suppose, worse than some."

"That seems tame to me and I did not take you to be so meekly made, to resign yourself to so plain a nature."

Lyanna flashed her a smile. "We all learn to resign ourselves." There was something very rueful in her face. "Little as we like it. I know my duty. It is to be very plain, very dull. Why should I care to fight since even a princess as great as you will not? It was for fear that you left that woman, not because you did not care to see a destiny that you thought you could not change."

Cheeky. "Tell me, child, does this have anything to do with your betrothed? Young Lord Robert?"

"Nothing and everything."

Elia smiled. "Well if you would have me sketch your nature for you, you might tell me more of the nothing that must mean everything to you soon."

Lyanna shot her a measuring look. "Tit for tat. You tell me and I tell you."

It was so childish that Elia had to laugh. She was a light-hearted young thing, this Stark girl, and she made Elia forget her own troubles. "Tell you what?"

"Why, how you liked His Highness the Prince, when you first saw him."

Elia coloured. "Oh well enough," she said, almost shyly. "As well as any other girl in the Seven Kingdoms would, were she betrothed to a prince. When I was sixteen and still unspoken for, my lady mother had me travel with her to find a husband for me - Oberyn and I laughed at the Hightower boy and prayed on our knees that we would not be bound in holy matrimony to those fearsome Lannister children."

"I have heard quite a bit about the Lannisters," Lyanna said reflectively. "I think I should like to see them."

"You would not," Elia said very earnestly. "Perhaps you might like to look upon - they are very comely, both of them - but after you had looked your fill you would hie away if you had any sense." _My good mother has no sense, _she decided. _For she dotes upon Cersei and Jaime. She says it is because she loved their mother, the Lady Joanna, well but then my mother was one of her companions too and she cannot bear the sight of me. _

Not to be deterred, Lyanna ploughed on. "But you haven't told me about you and the prince."

Elia was vexed to feel that she was still blushing. "Oh what is there to tell?" she asked. "A man and a maid, the maiden very shy, the man most comely. How could I help but fall in love?"

"Robert is said to be very comely."

"Ah, but you are not said to be shy, my lady. It must needs work both ways." It seemed as though they had been walking for a long time, though it might have been only a few minutes in truth. She tired easily.

Uncle Lewyn, who had been following them, was receptive as ever to her needs. "Your Highness," he said, unfastening the mother-of-pearl spear clasps of his velvet cloak. He cast it down upon the ground, under the shade of the trees.

"You are too kind, uncle," Elia said, spreading her skirts about her as she sank down. She looked up, those were apple trees in blossom above her. Theirs was a spreading canopy of soft pink petals and glossy leaves, mellow sunshine flooding through their chinks. She tilted her face upwards, letting the warm golden light wash over her. How she loved spring.

Lady Lyanna had drawn her knees up to her chest, quite a childish position but most endearing. She was smiling, her lovely dimples very much in evidence.

"Eleven years since the last spring, according to my lord father," she said. "I was too young to remember it, of course. Do you remember it, my lady?"

Elia considered that. "Winters in Dorne must be as mellow as northern summers," she said. "I was ten when the last spring past us by, a child playing in the pools of the Water Gardens with my brother. They are very lovely, the Water Gardens, fountains and fruit trees, pink marble and laughing children. They were built for a Targaryen princess, a gentle soul whose mother's love extended to all children, be they great or ever so mean."

"Dragons planting trees?" Lyanna sounded amused.

"Some do. Prince Rhaegar hopes to." She watched the girl's face carefully for signs of interest. True Lyanna's face did brighten, there was an alertness in her eyes now where there had been only a sleepy complaisance. It did not mean anything - all of her ladies-in-waiting were prone to falling in love with her husband every now and then and yet Rhaegar, who had every reason in the world to stray, had kept his faith with her.

"Spring is very sweet. You must have been born in the spring. Winter had already begun once I set foot in the Red Keep, it might be nothing compared to the weather of the North but it was very bitter for a girl fresh from Sunspear. My good mother would say that I had brought winter with me."

"Her Grace is not fond of you?"

Elia made a face. "Every mother weeps floods of tears on the day her son weds. You are lucky in that Lord Robert has no mother to trouble you."

"Lord Robert would be trouble enough without a mother."

Elia could not help but stroke the girl's hair. "You think so now," she said tenderly. "But in time you will come to love him."

Lyanna giggled. "But I do not want to fall in love in time, when I am sour and sagging and grey as a stoneman," she protested. "I want to fall in love _now_, madly, passionately in love as you fell in love with your prince._"_

"Why what makes you think that?" Elia asked, much amused. "Our marriage was made for convenience." _Or spite, _she thought, remembering the story they told of how her good father had dealt with the Lannisters. Queen Rhaella seemed to resent her husband for it - though perhaps if precious Lady Joanna's daughter was Rhaegar's bride she might have loved Elia just as well as she claimed to love Cersei now.

"Dear princess anyone who looked at your face and his could tell. I wish you much happiness in your love."

"I thank you," Elia said softly, twisting the chain of linked golden suns she wore at her throat. "There are many who wish me ill. It is good of you to be so kind." Then lightly she added, "Or otherwise my brother would surely murder him as he swore to me on my wedding day, should any harm come to me in my marriage. I would not have blood on my hands. I am sure it would take forever to clean."

Lyanna laughed. "Prince Oberyn?" she guessed. "Prince Doran is said to be staid."

"Staid and steady he calls himself. My brother Oberyn is made more fiercely - as you might have guessed by the name they've given."

"The Red Viper." Lyanna nodded sagely. "That's my brother Brandon all over again. My brother Ned's just like your brother, Prince Doran. Too cautious for words. Brandon likes to live - like me."

"Lord Robert has the look of a man who likes to live." Elia tried to steer the conversation to calmer waters, it was better for the girl if she fell quickly in love with the man she was promised to. It was tiresome mooning over a man you couldn't have, so much wasted time and energy.

"And that's why he won't suit me at all," Lyanna said, just to be wilful Elia suspected. "I would rather have someone calmer. Oil on the troubled waters of my soul."

"Why, do you have troubled waters?"

"Unexpected depths beneath the shallows that stretch so far. Will Prince Oberyn attend the tourney?"

"He would not miss it for the world." Elia smiled. "We had a bird from him this morning, he is riding in haste towards Harrenhal and we shall sup together tonight he promises."

"It's nice to have a brother to keep his promises to you," Lyanna reflected. "Brothers never play you false. Sometimes they torment the life out of you but they always love you."

"He says he has a little surprise from Oldtown for me. I wonder what it is."

"Is he full of surprises?"

"Oh, always."

"I should like to meet him."

"My dear child, remember that you are a woman to be wed."

"Will that stop him?"

"No, I rather think that it will only make him more eager."

"I live for the excitement of the chase. Who would you put your money on if it came to a duel between your brother and my betrothed?"

"You ought not say such things."

"You would be duty bound to support your brother of course. So would I if it came down to a duel between any of my brothers and His Highness."

"The thought seems to excite you."

"You have no idea how I love a storm of swords."

"Is that a hint for me?"

"If you will take it in that vein then - yes."

"My wits are not as sharp as yours, Lady Lyanna. Do explain."

"I want to see them in the practice courts," Lyanna said bluntly. "I always do around this time, at midmorning. I never miss a day - it's the warmest time of the day, before they're too tired to fence properly, they're all ready for the new day. All that energy - it's just, just beautiful." She hesitated. "You don't understand me, do you?"

Elia shook her head. "No, I think not. Martial talk has always gone above my head though I commend your fascination and your eagerness to learn. The lady of a great castle must know how to command her men-at-arms as well as her women-in-waiting. She should be accomplished in all things."

"I assure you that I am accomplished in just the one thing."

"What would that be now?"

"Getting my own way."

"You remind me of a young girl near your own age. She is a great beauty, just as you are."

"A great beauty?" Lyanna snorted eloquently. "Who is she?"

"Cersei Lannister." Elia rose to her feet. "I have rested long enough. I will not inflict my ladies' presence on you though I hope you do not mind mine."

Lyanna shook her head, a smile as warm as summer slipping onto her face. "I like you," she said suddenly. "You're not like Catelyn who's so carefully sweet or Ashara who tries so hard to be charming. You're not sour or bitter like Lysa or Mariya. You're... kind."

"I have every reason in the world to be kind," Elia said. "I have everything in the world that I could possibly want." _And nothing that I need. _"What more could a woman ask for you?"

yanna threw her a shrewd look. "I do not know," she said. "I am not yet a woman grown yet though I might be tall enough to play the part. I do not know, my lady, but there seems to be something missing in your heart, good though it is." She curtseyed. "With your leave, Highness."

Elia nodded. "Enjoy yourself, Lady Lyanna."

"Oh I will," Lyanna said, smiling serenely over her shoulder with the confidence of a pretty girl who always wins. "I always do."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yes, I know it's been nine months since the last chapter (odd seeing how fast I used to update!) but I'm been really, really busy with going to college and everything. I just brushed over the first few chapters to correct the typos everyone's pointed out - and added a few tiny ADWD references.  
><strong>

**I know it seems too much of a good coincidence to put Maggy the Frog here but ASOIAF is so full of coincidences - Tyrion befriending the dwarf at Joffrey's wedding comes to mind! - and it was really just too good an opportunity to miss. And Maggy _is_ Jeyne Westerling's great grandmother. Mariya Darry had three daughters and one son, among whom were Gatehouse Ami and Fat Walda whose dowry was her weight in silver.**

**This was sort of a filler chapter. And now the real fun begins! Next chapter stars Howland Reed and the Grand Tully-Baratheon-Stark-Arryn alliance!  
><strong>


	9. Benjen: Flowstone Yard

_Now two children danced across the godswood, hooting at one another as they dueled with broken branches. The girl was the older and taller of the two. Arya! Bran thought eagerly, as he watched her leap up onto a rock and cut at the boy. But that couldn't be right. If the girl was Arya, the boy was Bran himself, and he had never worn his hair so long. And Arya never beat me playing swords, the way that girl is beating him. She slashed the boy across his thigh, so hard that his leg went out from under him and he fell into the pool and began to splash and shout. "You be quiet, stupid," the girl said, tossing her own branch aside. "It's just water. Do you want Old Nan to hear and run tell Father?" She knelt and pulled her brother from the pool, but before she got him out again, the two of them were gone._

** - A Dance with Dragons**

* * *

><p><em>"Ethan Glover was Brandon's squire," Catelyn said. "He was the only one to survive. The others were Jeffory Mallister, Kyle Royce, and Elbert<em>_ Arryn, Jon Arryn's nephew and heir." It was queer how she still remembered the names, after so many years." Aerys accused them of treason and__ summoned their fathers to court to answer the charge, with the sons as hostages. When they came, he had them murdered without trial. Fathers__ and sons both._

**- A Clash of Kings  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>The Dornish garb was comfortable, but his father would have been aghast had he lived to see his son so dressed. He<em>_ was a man of the Reach, and the Dornish were his ancient foes, as the tapestries at Old Oak bore witness. Arys only had to close his eyes to see__ them still. Lord Edgerran the Open-Handed, seated in splendor with the heads of a hundred Dornishmen piled round his feet. The Three Leaves in__ the Prince's Pass, pierced by Dornish spears, Alester sounding his warhorn with his last breath. Ser Olyvar the Green Oak all in white, dying at the__ side of the Young Dragon. Dorne is no fit place for any Oakheart._

**- A Feast For Crows  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Flowstone Yard was alive with battle joined, the blades clashed together like thunder though they called it practice. A hundred quarrels were being aired in the court, under the name of a mock fight.<p>

Princess Elia's Dornishmen crossed spears with the longswords of the Marchers of the Reach, they had been fire and ice to eachother since Nymeria of the Rhoynar had been a babe in swaddling cloths. Blackwood men of Raventree Hall aired their ancient feud with the Brackens of Stone Hedge, their lords had both been the Kings of the Trident in the Age of the Heroes and they were forever quarrelling, Edmure told him.

If this was but play then Benjen wondered how much blood would be shed on the day of the great seven-sided mêlée. The squires and green boys had been relegated to the sides of the yard to watch the grown men. Next to Benjen, Edmure let out a sigh of pure envy.

"I would give anything to be _him_." He was looking at Lord Robert. He fought like a demon, swinging his massive warhammer against three others as lesser men might a sword.

Loyalty forced Benjen to say, "My brothers fight just as well."

It was not quite true and Edmure only sniffed in answer. Ned was holding his own against a man with a red castle sewn on his breast ably but that was all. He was not exciting to look at. Brandon was engaged in a friendly sparring match with a friend, Ser Elbert, Lord Arryn's nephew and heir who had been fostered at Winterfell.

They were all watching Lord Robert today. Ser Arthur Dayne was in attendance upon Prince Rhaegar and in his absence, Lord Robert was undoubtably the most dashing warrior.

Ethan, who stood on Benjen's other side and had a weakness for poetry (and for Lyanna), said that the way he moved reminded him of the way water flowed. He had been grieved to deliver his sweet lady to the great brute's hands at first but now he had apparently reconsidered his decision - Robert Baratheon had proved himself worthy of the Rose of Winterfell, the beauteous, the peerless Lady Lyanna.

"That is how a prince should be," Edmure said decisively. "Where d'you think Prince Rhaegar is? His place is here."

"He's a prince, isn't he?" Benjen said. "He can do whatever he wants."

Edmure shook his head. "Of course not. A prince should act like a prince, a king like a king. Elsewise they don't deserve the name. That's what _my _father says." He puffed up with the pride of the firstborn son, the only heir.

Benjen felt the pinch of jealousy. His lord father had never considered him important enough to include in his counsels, and he was a year older than Edmure the little braggart. But then he quickly suppressed it. After all, he wouldn't _really_ want to be the first son like Brandon, it was hard work shouldering the responsiblities of a lord. Much easier being a third son, the baby of the family.

"Maybe he doesn't want to act like a prince," Benjen said thoughtfully. "Maybe he doesn't find it as interesting as Lord Robert does."

Edmure looked as though he wanted to say something nasty, but then he thought better of it. Even he was not so foolish as to impugn the prince's honour.

"There's Lady Lyanna," Ethan said suddenly. He was the same age as her and always kept his eyes open for sightings of Benjen's sister - a great pity since it made Lya vainer than ever. Most men tended to fall to the spell of his sister's charms, Benjen knew, though in his opinion she wasn't worth it. She was annoying. Even Edmure, who was so full of himself, was blushing like a beet. It did nothing for his looks, it made him look like a great tomato.

"My lady," he said, sweeping Lya a bow so low that his nose almost touched the curled toes of his boots.

She nodded at him, he was only small fry and today she was very becomingly dressed. "Hallo Ben," she said, cuffing his head. "Little Ethan."

Ethan who was too shy to string more than five words together in her presence only goggled at her.

"Your betrothed fights well, my lady," Edmure said, in an effort to be gallant. "You must be so proud of him."

Lya looked at him. "And why?"

Edmure was at a loss. He had said the right words but he did not know that only the wrong ones worked their magic where Lya was concerned. "Why because he is most valiant and gallant and- and-"

"He's good at whacking people. I am so very delighted." She turned her attention to their brothers. "So the Arryns arrived this morning did they? I remember Elbert well. And that one with Ned, he'll be a Redfort. Perhaps the one he and Robert were fostered with at the Eyrie."

"Shouldn't you be with Princess Elia?" Benjen asked, suddenly suspicious. "Or did she kick you out?"

"She couldn't stand my shining beauty. She feared that I might try to steal the prince away from her."

Benjen snorted. "You're not that pretty."

Lyanna shot him a wolfish grin. "Watch your tongue, little brother." Heedless of her pretty silk gown, she leaned against the railings of the court to watch. Her eyes missed nothing, from the absolute lack of style on Robert's part - which she was quick to point out - to the nearly demonic persistence of the Dondarrion who was paired with a Santagar.

"Did you enjoy yourself today, my lady?" Edmure wanted to know. "There are mummers and fire-eaters and a witch who can see your fortune in a drop of blood-"

"And now a juggling maiden." Lya snatched Ben's tourney blade out of his hand and tossed it in the air. With a dancer's grace she caught it hilt-first as it fell through the air. Ethan's eyes looked ready to pop out of his face.

Even Edmure looked suitably impressed. "Who taught you that, my lady?"

"No one. I taught myself when there was nothing to do but stare sullenly at my brothers playing with swords in the yard." She grimaced and added, "I'm clever that way."

"Just as clever as a mummer's monkey Father says," Benjen explained. "As bright and worthless as quicksilver. Quick to learn the things which are of no use at all. Singing and juggling, say."

She made a face. "Well at least I'm quick. Which is more than he says of you."

Robert had finished. His eyes went straight to Benjen's sister, very conspicuous in regal purple and shimmering silver. There was something quite predatory in the way he smiled at her, nothing like a stag at all. He strode towards them, his arm loped around the shoulders of the red-haired young man who had given him the hardest fight.

"Gods spare me," Lya muttered but she was wily enough to muster a sweet smile on her face. "Lord Robert," she said, curtseying. She was very much aware that most of the eyes on the yard were on her, the only noble lady present, and him, the finest warrior. Sensing her need, Benjen shifted closer to her, shielding her as best he could from prying eyes. He wished that he could keep her away from Robert Baratheon as well, she never seemed quite at her ease around him though they were to be wed.

Lord Robert nodded affably to the boys. If Ethan was tongue-tied in Lya's presence, then the same phenomenon befell Edmure when Lord Robert was around. Both boys stood as mute as statues and only Benjen spoke. "You were splendid!" he said earnestly, wondering why Lya was not madly in love with Robert. Ethan's sister Alannys was and Lya said the princess's ladies twittered about him constantly. What was wrong with his sister, he wondered.

_Wilfulness, a touch of wildness, _he thought sagely, remembering something his father had once let drop when he thought Benjen wasn't listening. _The wolf blood. _

"Thank you, lad. Lyanna - this is Ser Jon Connington, heir to Griffin's Roost. Ser Jon, this is-"

"The Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, your betrothed whose beauty is already famed." There were griffins embroidered on the man's white surcoat, as red as the long hair that fell to his collar. He took Lyanna's hand to kiss it but there was only courtesy in his smile - he had not fallen prey to her yet. "I am charmed." He did not sound so. "It was an honour to fight against Lord Robert, my lady. You must be so proud."

"Why should I not be?" It was as though she was asking herself the same question. "You fight like a wildling, Robert," she teased him. "All brute force and no grace."

"I win like a wildling."

"Ah what is it to win if there is no pleasure to be found in watching you?"

Robert snorted. "That's what all the women say and yet they'd druther have me, brute as I am, than a graceful mountebank who lost."

"Why, have you known so very many women?" Lyanna's lips curled as the conversation grew bawdier. She was enjoying herself immensely.

Robert shot her a dazzling smile. "You would think me a poor sort of husband if I had not, sweetling."

Lyanna waggled her eyebrows before turning to Ser Jon. "You are one of His Highness's chiefest companions, are you not?" she asked him.

"I like to consider myself so, certainly, though few can claim the honour of being close to our silver prince's heart."

"Where is he today, do you think?" she asked lightly. She did not blush but there was a hint of embarrassment in her voice, Benjen could hear it though nobody else would think it to hear her. "I had thought to find him here, sparring with his noble knights as befits a prince. My Lady Princess sent me to find him."

_Liar, she never did_, Benjen thought._ Why, Lya, you're in love with him yourself, aren't you like all the girls who aren't crazy about Lord Robert are? _What fun to have something to blackmail her with.

She was twisting the hilt of Benjen's wooden tourney sword in her hands, though her smile was as relentlessly serene as ever.

"Did she send you here?" Ser Jon asked, looking astonished. "Her Highness would know that Prince Rhaegar is most often found in the library at this hour. Of a certainty he would not be able to resist the treasures of Harrenhal's bookhouses."

Lyanna's face fell ever so slightly. She liked libraries as little as Benjen and Brandon did, the musty smell of books made her head ache she claimed. They would often play truant and hide in the godswood when they should have been at their lessons in Maester Walys' tower. Father did not mind much, he would simply tell the beleaguered maester that a girl had no need to fill her head with book-learning and as for a third son... why he was worth even less than a daughter who could at least be married off for an alliance.

"She did not offer me instructions," Lyanna said. "I had merely thought that I might find him here."

"Well now you've learnt your lesson," Robert said affably. "My royal cousin is too high to concern himself with the baser matters that are so important to lesser men."

"His Highness is as at home on the courts as in the bookhouses," said Ser Jon stiffly, very much on his dignity. "Which can be said of few men. His devotion to duty is second to none. As you might well find out on the tiltyard, Lord Robert."

Robert nodded genially. "Perhaps on the tiltyard for I have no taste for jousting," he allowed. "Though I consider it unlikely on the day of the melee."

"Indeed." Ser Jon bowed to Lya. "I offer you my condolences, my lady. Fair as you are, I doubt that you shall be our Queen of Love and Beauty for your lord cannot hope to win when such fine warriors take the field."

"Fair as I am, they might still crown me over their own ladies," Lyanna said, eyes dancing. "Unless it is Prince Rhaegar who wins. His devotion to duty is second to none, I understand, and the gentle princess is his duty." She curtseyed. "I had best take my leave," she said. "Princess Elia will be looking for me."

"I shall accompany you," Robert said quickly. "There are all sorts of rough men about at a tourney as great as this one. And gods, this is _Harrenhal _after all. Ghosts. The easiest place in the world to get lost in."

"Thank you, no," Lyanna said, with a thin-lipped smile. She patted Benjen's tourney sword. "I have this to defend mine honour."

Robert threw back his head and roared with laughter.

"And this," she said quickly, grabbing Benjen's arm.

"Eh?" Benjen said.

"I do not think that it would be entirely proper for us to walk together, unchaperoned," she continued sweetly. "My brother must accompany me."

"He could accompany _us_," Robert said, still hopeful. "Then we would have a bloody chaperone."

She shook her head. "I need you to stay here," she said very earnestly. "To practice so that I might still have a shot at the Queen's crown. Can you do that for me?"

Robert took her hand and squeezed it. His eyes were very blue, very sincere. "For you, anything, my lady."

Behind Benjen, Edmure and Ethan gave happy little sighs, their romantic souls completely satisfied by this touching moment. Benjen rolled his eyes and to his surprise, caught Ser Jon doing the same.

* * *

><p><em>"Sometimes the knights are the monsters, Bran. The little crannogman was walking across the field, enjoying the warm spring day and harming<em>_ none, when he was set upon by three squires. They were none older than fifteen, yet even so they were bigger than him, all three. This was their__ world, as they saw it, and he had no right to be there. They snatched away his spear and knocked him to the ground, cursing him for a frogeater."_

_"Were they Walders?" It sounded like something Little Walder Frey might have done._

_"None offered a name, but he marked their faces well so he could revenge himself upon them later. They shoved him down every time he tried to__ rise, and kicked him when he curled up on the ground. But then they heard a roar. 'That's my father's man you're kicking,' howled the she-wolf."_

_"A wolf on four legs, or two?"_

_"Two," said Meera. "The she-wolf laid into the squires with a tourney sword, scattering them all. The crannogman was bruised and bloodied, so__ she took him back to her lair to clean his cuts and bind them up with linen. There he met her pack brothers: the wild wolf who led them, the quiet wolf__ beside him, and the pup who was youngest of the four._

**- A Storm of Swords**

* * *

><p><em>Bran heard Little Walder mutter, "Frogeaters," to Big Walder beside him. Ser Rodrik climbed to his feet. "Be welcome, friends, and share this harvest with us." Serving men hurried to lengthen the table on the dais, fetching trestles and chairs.<em>

_"Who are they?" Rickon asked._

_"Mudmen," answered Little Walder disdainfully. "They're thieves and cravens, and they have green teeth from eating frogs."_

**- A Clash of Kings**

* * *

><p>"D'you really need me to defend your honour?"<p>

Lya cuffed him hard. "Don't be stupid, pup. I had to take _someone_ or he would have kicked up the greatest fuss and Brandon would have forced me to take him, just for a laugh."

"Why don't you want to take him?"

"Because he's stupid."

"Ned doesn't think so. He's always talking about Lord Robert."

"Ned's stupid. You're a little pest but I can deal with you. That's why I didn't take Ned, see?"

"I like Lord Robert too. He's very brave and strong."

"You're a moonstruck boy, of course you like him. You're half in love with him already - you and Ned should have been girls."

"Well you're stupid not to love him since you're to marry him. He can make you do anything he wants."

"Mind your tongue, little brother."

"Or what?"

She whacked him with the tourney sword. _His _tourney sword. "Or I'll do that again."

"That's not fair!" He sounded like a baby even to himself but that was what Lya did to him. "I don't have anything to fight you off with."

"Even if you did, I'd still win."

He had to admit that she had a point. "You never asked me if I wanted to come with you," he said petulantly. "That wasn't fair. I think I'll tell Father that you only dragged me along with you because you don't like Lord Robert. He won't be best pleased with you then."

She grinned at him. "Ah you wouldn't, Ben."

"I would too."

"You wouldn't," she continued serenely, as though he mattered as much as a squeaking mouse, "because we're going to have grand adventures together. That's why I picked you instead of Brandon or Ned or Robert. Remember, this is Harrenhal after all. Ghosts. The easiest place in the world to get lost."

When she talked like that, you could forget that she was a witch who called you names and sometimes a bitch who hit you and always won. There was magic in her voice, in the way she was always chasing adventures and making you chase them too.

"I bet you'd want to go adventuring in the Wailing Tower," he told her. "I bet you would."

"Oh? Why's that, child?"

"The libraries are in the Wailing Tower."

Lya only laughed and did not trouble to hide that she was blushing. "Perhaps I would."

Seeing that she didn't seem to mind his teasing much, Benjen tried another tack. "They say the kitchens here are as big as Winterfell's Great Hall," Benjen said. "D'you think we might sneak out a few tarts?" His stomach was rumbling. Brandon said that he was at the age at which he was always hungry and it was true too.

Lya laughed and ruffled his hair. "I'd rather hunt for bloodthirsty ghosts, but tarts might do in a pinch. Soon you'll be chasing after the sort of tarts I won't care to devour. I might as well make the most-" She stopped abruptly but she did not have to say anything. Benjen had heard it too.

It was a low, keening wail like an animal in pain and above it rose the sounds of revelry and cruel laughter, the thud of boots.

"Gods help them, I'm going to _kill _them," she snarled, an ugly look creeping into her face and Benjen was reminded of the day she had caught Ser Domeric whipping his horse. It did not help that the Boltons were honoured guests at Winterfell at the time, that the servants whispered that Lord Roose had come to ask for Lya's hand for his son, that she was only ten years old and half Ser Domeric's size. She had thrown herself at him like a small fury when she had caught him working out his rage on the poor beast, all lathered and bloody, and it had taken all three of her brothers to drag her off him.

Lya snatched up her skirts and all but flew, Benjen racing after her.

The sounds were coming from behind a clump of dense bushes, it was a lonely part of the vast grounds, far from the towers where no tents nor pavilions had been set up. There was a little clearing behind the bushes and there they saw what they had expected.

The three boys stood together in a half-circle around someone kneeling on the ground whom Benjen could not see from afar. They were squires some years older than him, tall and strong and well-armed. One wore a pitchfork, the other a pair of porcupines, the last the twin towers of House Frey. Judging from the richness of their attire and their voices, they were nobly born but that did not matter to his sister. She was far ahead of him now, lashing his sword like a demon in her fury, quite as wild as Lord Robert in the midst of the frey.

"That's my father's man you're kicking!" she howled.

She was one against three just like her betrothed had been, but she did not care. She caught the porcupine in the back of his knees, with an oof he fell to the hard ground. Before the others could react, she smashed her sword hard at the Frey's chest and he yelled in pain. The pitchfork squire went last, Lyanna hit him in the back of his head and he tripped and stumbled.

She was swift and nimble and her blows _always_ hurt, Benjen knew from experience. Brandon had first taught her to wield a blade, though their lord father would have skinned them alive if he had heard. She was quick to learn and she never forgot a thing she found interesting.

"You want more of this?" she screamed, lashing out viciously when one of them tried to rise. She looked like a goddess of vengence, her eyes blazing like fire.

They scattered like autumn leaves, like cowards and it was only then that Benjen realized that he had been holding his breath, watching her as he had been watching Lord Robert.

Careless of her fine silks, she knelt on the ground next to the man Benjen had not been able to see at first. He had a man's face but he was no bigger than Benjen. A boy-man, he decided, scooting closer to his sister.

"Are you hurt?" he asked stupidly.

Lya swore viciously. "Of course he is, stupid!" She did not even bother to cuff his head, like she always did when she thought he was being stupid - and sometimes when she did not.

Benjen looked closer at the boy-man. He was as pale as the strips of linen that Lya was now busy ripping from her petticoat, his eyes rolled back in his head. There was blood dripping from his torn lips, bruises blooming all over his face. His tunic was torn and muddied, one sleeve slashed violently off. A dozen cuts bleed on his body where they could see, Benjen dreaded to think what lay beneath.

She was swearing under her breath, her hands trembling as she knotted a makeshift bandage. "Help me," she said tersely, leaning his weight on her body and trying to stand up. She was white with fear.

He shifted to accomodate her. "How could you tell that he was one of father's men? I've never seen him before..."

She nodded at the three-pronged spear that lay on the ground beside them. Benjen looked more closely at it and then the little man. He was clad in a leather jerkin and a tunic green as moss, sewn with bronze scales. A torn net and a battered leathern shield with neither sigil nor device on it lay beside him. It was plain to see that he could only be one of the little green men of the Neck, a crannogman.

"Oh don't pick those up, we can't carry him and it together," she hissed when he bent to inspect the curiously-made spear. She loped one of the poor man's arms around her shoulders, the other around Benjen's.

"Do you think we should move him at all?"

"We haven't any other choice have we?" she snapped. "Look at him, Benjen, he's one of the crannogmen and we're in the heart of the riverlands. They'd kill him for sport if they saw him and there'd be none to say naught to them, poor and friendless as he is. We can't wait long enough for him to be rescued or hope that someone else will for us. We have to do it ourselves."

His sister was always rescuing people - often in cases where they had no desire to be rescued. Like she had rescued Father from the clutches of Lady Elanor Dustin who had hoped to wed him, by setting the hounds on her. Like she had rescued Lady Catelyn Tully from the sin of vanity by burning off her hair when she was seven. This was one of the rare cases, Benjen thought, the rescue was perfectly justified.

"Where are we taking him?" Benjen asked, letting her lead. She was still swearing to herself, as though it might help.

"Our tent."

"D'you think Father will mind?" Benjen was doubtful. "We could leave him to be looked after by a maester. We could take him to Brandon and ask him what to do."

Lya shook her head, her eyes bright. "That would take too much time. And the maesters would not have any love for a crannogman, they would be as like to poison him as to save him and think they were doing everyone a service. You haven't heard how the Tully girls speak of the bogdwellers of the Neck. No, Ben, we have to do it ourselves. We have to _save _him."

* * *

><p><em>"Once there was a curious lad who lived in the Neck. He was small like all crannogmen, but brave and smart and strong as well. He grew up hunting and fishing and climbing trees, and learned all the magics of my people."<em>

_Bran was almost certain he had never heard this story. "Did he have green dreams like Jojen?"_

_"No," said Meera, "but he could breathe mud and run on leaves, and change earth to water and water to earth with no more than a whispered word. He could talk to trees and weave words and make castles appear and disappear."_

_"I wish I could," Bran said plaintively. "When does he meet the tree knight?"_

_Meera made a face at him. "Sooner if a certain prince would be quiet."_

_"I was just asking."_

_"The lad knew the magics of the crannogs," she continued, "but he wanted more. Our people seldom travel far from home, you know. We're a smallfolk, and our ways seem queer to some, so the big people do not always treat us kindly. But this lad was bolder than most, and one day when he had grown to manhood he decided he would leave the crannogs and visit the Isle of Faces."_

_"No one visits the Isle of Faces," objected Bran. "That's where the green men live."_

_"It was the green men he meant to find. So he donned a shirt sewn with bronze scales, like mine, took up a leathern shield and a three-pronged_  
><em>spear, like mine, and paddled a little skin boat down the Green Fork."<em>

_Bran closed his eyes to try and see the man in his little skin boat. In his head, the crannogman looked like Jojen, only older and stronger and__ dressed like Meera._

_"He passed beneath the Twins by night so the Freys would not attack him, and when he reached the Trident he climbed from the river and put__ his boat on his head and began to walk. It took him many a day, but finally he reached the Gods Eye, threw his boat in the lake, and paddled out to__ the Isle of Faces."_

_"Did he meet the green men?"_

_"Yes," said Meera, "but that's another story, and not for me to tell. My prince asked for knights."_

_"Green men are good too."_

_"They are," she agreed, but said no more about them. "All that winter the crannogman stayed on the isle, but when the spring broke he heard the wide world calling and knew the time had come to leave. His skin boat was just where he'd left it, so he said his farewells and paddled off toward shore. He rowed and rowed, and finally saw the distant towers of a castle rising beside the lake. The towers reached ever higher as he neared shore, until he realized that this must be the greatest castle in all the world."_

**- A Storm of Swords **

* * *

><p>He was starting to come to.<p>

The late rays of the afternoon sun slanted through the tent, tinting it gold and bronze. In this light, the gilded silver direwolf on the shield at the entrance was the colour of blood and fire. His sister's face was awash with the warm light, tender as a mother's as she watched over the crannogman who was still asleep on the furs.

They had gotten him back safely to father's tent and let him sleep through the morning and all the afternoon. They had not been disturbed - Ned shared Lord Robert's tent and Father was with Lord Tully and Lord Arryn.

She had thrown the tent upside down, hunting frantically through the chests for her herbs and potions, strips of linen and a bowl to hold clean, warm water. Benjen had helped her some, rushing to the stream to collect the water, sponging down the little man but he had not Lya's skill. As the daughter of a great castle she had learnt her possets and herblore in the stillroom, under Old Nan and the midwives of the winter town.

Women's knowledge of birth and death and everything that lay in between, it had been passed down from mothers to daughters in the North since the days of the First Men. Highborn southron maids were too fine to tend to their stillrooms by themselves but at Winterfell the Old Ways still ruled.

They had put him in Benjen's clothes for those were the only ones that would fit. Grand ones too, not plain, workday clothes which their father would have thought more suited to little crannogman, but which Lyanna did not. A tunic and doublet of linen, blue as a river, and trimmed with silver. Breeches of soft brown lambswool and high leathern boots with curling, gilded toes. He looked like a proper lordling now, he had a gentle face and the finery suited him well - far better than their rich garb had suited the squires who had set upon him.

He was opening his eyes now, they were as green as moss but wide and full of fear.

"Don't be scared," Lyanna said very softly, so as not to startle him. She was as gentle with him as she had been with the little fawn she had captured on a hunt once. "We found you when the squires were hurting you and brought you here to our tent."

His eyes darted here and there, as though he were looking for a way out. He saw the shield that leaned against the entrance. "Wolves," he muttered and then brought his hand up stiffly to his lips, as though surprised that it did not hurt to speak. They had been torn and bloody but Lya had smeared some foul-smelling salve all over them and they were all right now.

"Starks." Lya motioned to him and Benjen shuffled closer to kneel at her side. "I'm Lyanna and this is my brother Benjen."

"D'you remember anything at all?" Benjen asked curiously. Lyanna rose and began to fill a cup of weirwood bark with mead. There was bread too, apples and a sugar cone that she had intended for the horses.

The crannogman dragged himself awkwardly to a sitting position. "Enough," he said quietly, his eyes intent on Lya's face, "to know that I am forever in your debt, my Lady of Winterfell." He looked straight at her as though he would look into her heart. She blushed and looked down and Benjen was surprised. _She never looks down like ladies are supposed to, never her, _he thought, confused. _She says it's because she's no true lady. _

"Here," she muttered, suddenly as shy as a young maid with her first lover. "You should eat and drink. I fixed you up some but you'll need to restore your strength."

"Who are you?" Benjen asked curiously. "You're one of our lord father's men, aren't you?"

He nodded slowly and now his eyes slid to Benjen's face and he found himself squirming uncomfortably. But then the queer little man smiled and his face was lit up as bright as a rainbow. It was a smile that called for an answer.

"The years have passed in their hundreds and their thousands since my folk first swore their fealty to the King in the North," he said very formally. "Hearth and heart and harvest have my fathers pledged to Winterfell. And to you, my lady, I am bound by earth and water, bronze and iron, ice and fire. My name is Howland Reed and I am of the Greywater."

"The riverlands are not a kind place for crannogmen," Lya said. "The North would shelter you but the southrons do not understand your ways, Howland Reed. Why did you come here?"

"To learn, my lady."

"After you knew it wasn't safe?" Benjen demanded. _Or are you as simple as you seem gentle? _

He nodded. "There is more to life than being warm and safe, little lord. I would have gone through it again if only to see what I saw once again. It is a poor sort of life to be spent skulking in the shadows like spiders and hoping the great folk will let you dredge a living and make no note of you."

Lya was nodding as though she understood him. "Drink," she said very firmly, as though he was a child in the nursery and she his nurse.

He lifted his cup up gravely to toast her and then took a sip. "You have a good heart, my lady. Not many would have helped a bogdweller."

She tossed her head defiantly. "I am not many. I am Lyanna Stark of Winterfell." When she said it that way, it sounded almost like a battlecry.

"Why were they hurting you anyway?" Benjen asked curiously.

Lya made a face at him. "D'you think those animals needed a reason? They did it because they _could_, that's all." She shook her head in disgust. "Monsters. And them squires to noble knights, sworn to defend the weak and protect the innocent!"

"The world is full of monsters, my lady." Howland Reed handed the cup back to her. "But so long as we have our heroes, all is bound to be well."

"Heroes?" Lya smiled faintly. "I'm not a hero, I'm only a girl."

"Who says girls can't be heroes?"

They turned around and there stood Brandon at the entrance, watching them with his lips quirked into a little smile. He shouldered past Benjen and wrapped his arms around Lya, squeezing her hard. "I'm proud of you, little sister." Ned was behind him, he looked past Brandon and Lyanna to the little green man.

"You stupid," Lya said, laughing and punching Brandon's shoulder until he let her go. "How long have you been eavesdropping?"

"Long enough to know that my Lady of Winterfell is a hero," Brandon said pleasantly, tweaking her nose.

Ned was more practical. "The crannogmen never venture far from the Neck," he said suspiciously. "And Harrenhal is in the heart of the riverlands. Why did you come here?"

"Ned!" Lyanna scolded him. "You can't ask people questions like that."

But the little crannogman was smiling. "Black Harren's castle might be in the heart of the riverlands," he acknowledged. "But I ventured south to see for myself the heart of magic."

"What-?" began Ned, confused but Benjen and Lya, raised on Old Nan's hearth-tales were familiar with the phrase.

"The Isle of Faces!" Lya squealed.

"You never did!" Benjen exclaimed. "That's where the green men live!"

"It was the green men I went to find."

"Did you?" Lya demanded, wide-eyed as a child, quite forgetting that she was all of fourteen and often called herself a woman grown. "Did you really?"

"Bedtales," Ned said quietly, leaning back on his heels. "You know what they say about bogdwellers."

Benjen didn't know what they said and he was about to ask when Lya whirled on Ned like a wolf with teeth bared. "You be quiet, you stupid!" she snapped. "Just because the southrons have hammered their stupid ideas into your head for years doesn't make you as clever as you think you are! You know nothing, Ned Stark."

Ned, who was the timidest and most adoring of older brothers, held out his hands. "Peace, sister."

"Say you're sorry."

Ned's voice was very grave but his eyes danced. "I'm sorry."

"Not to me." But she was smiling now, just like Howland Reed who waved away Ned's apology wryly.

"The wolf pack," he said simply, biting into an apple. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

It was a queer thing to say, but somehow rather exciting. It was like something wizards told knights on their quests in the stories. Benjen shivered, imaging himself as the Last Hero on his quest to find the Children of the Forest. _This is Harrenhal, _he told himself. _Things are always happening here. _Perhaps he'd be part of a story of his own too, before the great tourney was over.

"Do you remember the ones who set upon you?" Brandon asked. "Could you point out their faces if you saw them again?"

"They were squires of the Houses Haigh and Blount and Frey," Lya told him. She had a head for sigils. "Blount and Frey are Lord Tully's bannermen-" she began hopefully but Brandon and Ned shook their heads together. Benjen's face fell, he had been hoping for vengeance, just like his sister had.

"So what do we do?" Benjen asked.

Ned rose to his feet. "Nothing," he said, quite calmly. "There is nothing we can do."

Lya was appalled. "_Eddard_," she yelled at him. "You can't just-"

Brandon put a hand on her shoulder. "Peace, little sister. We'll think of something." The look on his face was not very hopeful as he got to his feet and followed Ned. Benjen could tell that he had little intention of actually _doing _anything. "Where are you going?" he asked Ned.

"The banquet, don't you remember?" Ned asked, over his shoulder. "The King's great feast to begin tomorrow's tourney? We're all to go - best you begin to change, Ben. You too, Lya."

"I don't want to go," Lya said mulishly.

"What and have Good King Scab suspect of you treason, my little hero?" Brandon asked, laughing. "Faith, His Grace won't like it if we have a girl like you running amok, fomenting treasons and terror across the land."

"Oh stop it-"

"My lady," Howland said. "You really ought to go." For his pains, he was rewarded with a gargoyle's glare from his lady's face.

"She'll go only if you go too," Benjen said lightly. "Can't you see how madly she's fallen in love with you?" He had only meant to tease her but now, almost alarmingly, his sister's stubborn face brightened.

"Yes!" she squealed, tugging at his arm. "You should go too! You must!"

"My lady-" Howland's eyes seemed ready to pop out of his face. "With all due respect-"

"Lya," Brandon began warningly. "Do you really think that's wise?"

"Why not?" she demanded. She seemed determined to drag Howland out of the furs where he was burrowed like a winter mole. "He has as much right as any of father's men to go - and more than many of the lords who think themselves so great, who'll be at tables above the salt!"

"He's not really one of father's men," Ned had to point out. "Not truly."

Lya looked up at him. "He's _my _man," she said, a steely thread of determination running through her voice. "My man through thick and thin because he knows that I won't let him down." Now she had turned the poor man into her pet, her project, just as she had the fawn that she'd tamed.

"That's not very nice," Benjen objected. He liked Howland Reed and sometimes his sister's bright ideas didn't work out for the best. "You can't just bully him into going if he doesn't want to."

The truth of that seemed to have occurred to her as well since she now turned wide, limpid grey eyes on Howland Reed. "Of course you don't have to go," she said, "I won't force it upon you if you don't want to, but think for yourself, Howland. You said you came here to learn, to see everything that you'd dreamt of and more that you hadn't."

Well, he hadn't said those words out loud but Benjen had seen them in his eyes. He had to admit that Lya could be devilish cunning when she wanted to be.

"You'll never see another tourney as grand as this, not if you live to be a hundred. You'll never go to a king's banquet again, you'll never see Harrenhal in all it's glory ever again. What do you have to say to that? Are you just going to turn tail and cower like a whipped dog just because you've been hurt once? That's not like you."

"How do you know what he's like if you've just met him?" Ned asked her, very matter-of-factly but she ignored him, too busy weaving her spell over the poor little green man.

"Besides _I'll _be there, won't I? I'll look out for you, I'll protect you. Don't you believe me?"

"Our little hero," Brandon murmured. "Our knight in shining silks."

Howland Reed grimaced and then slowly grinned. It was a boy's grin, lighthearted and amused and brimming with mischief. "Does my lady leave me any choice?"

"There's always a choice when you're dealing with my sister," Brandon said sagely. "Turn tail and flee. It's always the best choice."

Solemnly Howland offered Lya his hand. "I would be honored to serve you as your man, Lady Lyanna," he said, very formally.

They heard a quiet chuckle from behind them and there stood their lord father, his face as light and merry as though he had shed ten years. "What's this now? I left my daughter to serve a princess and here I find her again commanding her own armies."

"Armies?" Benjen asked, laughing. "Howland's hardly an army."

Lord Rickard rested his hand on his youngest son's head. "The true devotion of one good, honest man can be as strong as an army of men who know you not, Benjen. Welcome to my daughter's service, Howland of the Greywater."

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><p><strong>AN: 48 Story alerts, please some reviews to match that? **


	10. Catelyn: Harrenhal

_When the last of Edmure's foot had shuffled under the portcullis, Brienne asked, "What shall we do now, my lady?"_

_"Our duty." Catelyn's face was drawn as she started across the yard. I have always done my duty, she thought. Perhaps that was why her lord__ father had always cherished her best of all his children. Her two older brothers had both died in infancy, so she had been son as well as daughter to__ Lord Hoster until Edmure was born. Then her mother had died and her father had told her that she must be the lady of Riverrun now, and she had__ done that too. And when Lord Hoster promised her to Brandon Stark, she had thanked him for making her such a splendid match._

I gave Brandon my favor to wear, and never comforted Petyr once after he was wounded, nor bid him farewell when Father sent him off. And when Brandon was murdered and Father told me I must wed his brother, I did so gladly, though I never saw Ned's face until our wedding day. I gave my maidenhood to this solemn stranger and sent him off to his war and his king and the woman who bore him his bastard, because I always did my duty.

**- A Clash of Kings**

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><p><em>She went inside to choose a gown to break her fast in. Petyr had given her his late wife's wardrobe, a wealth of silks, satins, velvets, and furs far beyond anything she had ever dreamed, though the great bulk of it was far too large for her.<em>

_There was a gown of purple silk that gave her pause, and another of dark blue velvet slashed with silver that would have woken all the color in her eyes, but in the end she remembered that Alayne was after al a bastard, and must not presume to dress above her station._

**- A Feast for Crows  
><strong>

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><p>"<em>I<em> shall have them. I must."

Catelyn was fast losing patience with her sister. "Lysa, have the goodness to remember that you are no longer a child and for once, act your age. Those were given to our lady mother as a troth gift and in time they shall pass to Edmure's bride."

"In time," Lysa said. "But not now. Edmure can hardly wear them himself. I think they'd look better on me than languishing in an old chest." She held the rich collar up against her throat. It was a chunky band of opals linked by delicate silver chains to teardrops of pearl and jet. It had the silken shimmer of pebbles plucked fresh from the riverbed and was captivatingly exquisite. Too exquisite, in truth, for Lysa who was only three-and-ten.

"By rights they are mine for now," Catelyn said sweetly. "For our lady mother is dead and Edmure is not yet betrothed. I am the elder, Lysa."

"But already betrothed!" Lysa shot back. "You're a _Stark _now, not a Tully so they are mine now."

"Not yet. Not till Father unpins my maiden's cloak. For now I'm as much as Tully as you are." _And will be even after, _Catelyn thought. _No matter what name they call me by._ Men thought it so simple and easy, a sweep of a cloak over a young filly's shoulders and she was yours, body and heart and soul. They expected their young wives to turn their hearts as well as their backs on all they had ever known as quickly as they changed their father's colors. _How selfish and thoughtless they are, like conceited little children. _

Brandon Stark was comely and honorable and he pleased Catelyn more than she had ever dared thought a husband might please her. Marriages were made for duty, after all, never desire. But she could never imagine herself as a northwoman like his wild sister, no, not even if she bore him company at bed and board for a hundred years and loved him dearly. At heart she would always be a daughter of the riverlands.

"So you'd best hand it to me, right now."

"You're already betrothed now," Lysa said, sounding aggrieved. "What need can you possibly have for them? Father will want _me _to look to my best advantage since he will be seeking suitors for my hand."

"They do not match your gown as they do mine," Catelyn said crisply. "You would look such a fool, sister, all decked out like a peasant girl in her gauds for the Maiden's Day."

She had put on a gown of shimmering silvery satin. The long, dagged sleeves that almost touched the floor were lined in deep blue felt. She had thought it such a pretty touch - the blue of the Tullys and the silver of the Starks. She wondered if Brandon would notice, whether he would say anything. Just to be catty, Lysa had picked out her blue velvet, slashed with silver. They both wore matching high-heeled dancing slippers of silver satin and their auburn hair was caught up in twin nets of silver strands and freshwater pearls.

"They'd match well enough with mine!" Lysa said fiercely. "You're just jealous that I'll outshine you if I wear them, that everyone will notice that I'm prettier than you and _that_ you can't bear."

Catelyn could not stop the words from bubbling to her lips. "You vain child," she snapped. "I have always outshone you."

"So you think you have!"

"_Think_?" Catelyn sniffed. "Oh Lysa, when has any man ever preferred you to me? When has any man named you fairer than me? Jaime Lannister would not dance with you had I not urged it of him, and he was to be betrothed to you. The Bracken boy and the Blackwood boy were up in arms against eachother for the honour of wearing my favour at Lord Frey's tourney. And Petyr-" she stopped abruptly, feeling that she had rather gone ahead of herself. Father would not be best pleased if he heard her mentioning Petyr Baelish.

There was an odd, rigid cast to Lysa's face now. She held herself stiffly as though she might crumple into tears at any moment. That was to be expected - she had been so fond of him.

"Oh Lysa," Catelyn sighed, feeling guilty. She reached out to hold her little sister's hand. "I am so sorry, please forgive me-"

"You _whore_," Lysa whispered and slapped her hand away. She twisted the necklace hard in her hands. Her lips quivered but there was poison in her eyes. "You cheap, filthy whore, you enticed him with your smiles and your dancing and your kisses, you did this to him, you and your _hideous_ Stark-"

There was a discreet tap at the door. "Daughters? Are you decent?"

"Oh for the Seven's sake," Catelyn whispered and shoved her sister so that her own back was to the door. "Lysa, compose yourself and mind your tongue for once." She smoothed her skirts down and plastered a hasty smile to her face. "Yes, Father. Come in."

Lord Hoster Tully entered, Septa Orchis hovering at his heels with a heavy box in her hands. Catelyn and Lysa dipped into curtseys while their father watched approvingly.

"Beautiful," he said tenderly. He kissed Catelyn's cheek and Lysa's forehead. Then he glanced over at the chamber they had been allotted and chuckled. "There is some advantage to your being Whent girls," he said cheerfully. Their mother had been a Whent of Harrenhal, though of a lesser branch. "Quarters in the castle instead of having to slum it in the tents with your father. Quite large isn't it? You might ask for Lord Rickard's little girl to share with you - she might be more comfortable."

"We did," Catelyn said quickly. She knew how to mind her courtesies even if some people did not.

"She refused," Lysa said. She had smoothed her face but there was a little quiver in her voice. But that need not arouse their father's suspicions - she was high-strung and he would easily excuse it to nerves before the great feast. "As expected. I think she's a dreadful, stuck-up little hoyden."

"Lysa," Catelyn said reprovingly, though she had to agree. _She had no mother to teach her, _she thought, trying to be charitable. _Nor any septa, she was simply allowed to run wild with her brothers. _That would not happen with the daughters she bore Brandon, she vowed. "All the men seem to find her engaging. Which is more than can be said of you - sour grapes, sister?"

Lysa grimaced. "They're _men_," she said spitefully. "She has a sort of wild beauty and they think her rudeness to be quite original and charming."

Lord Hoster chuckled. "What a sharp girl you are, Lysa," he said lightly. "But cheer up, daughters - what men find so engaging in a girl of four-and-ten they will not find so charming in a wife. I rather think my dutiful girls will fare better than Lord Rickard's later."

His eyes fell to the necklace in Lysa's hands and before Catelyn could speak he said, "Ah, Minisa's necklace. My lord father gave it to her when we were betrothed. She was a little older than you are now, Lysa - four-and-ten and as sweet as a spring morning." He smiled tenderly.

"Was she very lovely?" Lysa demanded, as she always did whenever their mother's name came up. She would like to believe that their parents had been passionately in love, just like in the songs, just as the Lord of Casterly Rock and his fair lady had been, before she died in birthing the Imp. Lysa was mad for songs and singers, almost more than a girl ought to be, but Catelyn was older and knew better. Still, she took care not to shatter Lysa's precious illusions.

"Very," Lord Hoster said, tweaking Lysa's nose. "But not as lovely as her two daughters."

_And as good__ and gentle __ as she was fair, _Catelyn knew. She had asked the old servants. _A very dutiful, very forgettable wife. _Lord Hoster had been as fond of her as most men were of fertile young wives who did their duty - but that was all. She wondered if he could still remember her face now, for she could not.

"You shall wear them tonight," Lord Hoster said. "Come, let me help you with them, child."

Lysa turned around so he could hook the necklace for her and stuck out her tongue triumphantly at Catelyn. Catelyn sighed and concealed her hurt like a lady, by pretending that it did not really matter to her one way or another. She was a woman grown while Lysa, though she had flowered for a year now, was really more like a child. Perhaps Father _did _want her to look her best tonight as he trotted her out to the men - Brandon would not mind if she came to him without Tully jewels around her neck and his opinion was the only one that ought to have mattered to her now. But it would have been so nice to be glanced at and admired on such a grand night and now it would be Lysa's chance, not hers...

Their father twirled Lysa around. "I'm prettier, aren't I?" Lysa demanded. She was trying to be pert but to Catelyn's ears it sounded desperate and needy, a demand for admiration._ What a child. _

Lord Hoster laughed uneasily, as though the hunger in Lysa's high-pitched voice discomfited him. Perhaps he could sense, as Catelyn did, that there was something not quite right about his younger daughter. "You are both so lovely that it would be impossible to choose from between you. You are as alike as a pair of freshwater pearls," he said diplomatically. "Cat, come here." He held the two of them before the looking glass of polished bronze that hung on the wall. "See," he said. "You could be reflections of eachother, you both look so alike."

Catelyn had to admit that he had a point. Most men would only see a pair of pretty sisters, maidens freshly-flowered and ripe for bedding. Most women, who were more critical, would think they looked well enough, both so alike in looks that it did not matter which one was wed to a favoured son. Catelyn decided that she had the better figure - she was taller and considerably more graceful than Lysa who was still in her awkward, coltish years. But Lysa had the sweeter face, delicate and dimpled with a most endearing childish little pout. But that was all.

Catelyn turned away. "I suppose I shall wear my pearls," she sighed. They were old and plain and she would not shine in them at all, but still she must wear _something. _

Lord Hoster chuckled. "Not tonight, Cat. Septa, bring the box here so that my daughter might see Lord Rickard's gift. It has belonged to the women of Winterfell since the time of Brandon Ice-Eyes, so he tells me."

Septa Orchis smiled and placed the box on the low table before the looking glass. "These will bring out all the colour of your eyes, my lady."

Lysa glanced quizzically at the box. "It's so plain," she said critically. "Mother's jewel boxes were much prettier, glazed and gilded, and she was only a Whent."

Catelyn had to agree with her. It was a square box of weirwood bark, grainy and white as bone with weathered brass clasps. On the top was painted a slender weirwood tree with a drift of scarlet leaves and a laughing face carved into it.

"I fancy that it's contents will more than make up for it's plainness," their father said, smiling. When Catelyn made no move towards he said, "Go on, open it. It's yours now."

Obediently, but with no great expectations, she pushed the lid back and gasped.

"Do you like it?" he teased her while Septa Orchis clapped her hands together and beamed. Only Lysa's face was as sour as curdled milk and somehow, that made it all the sweeter for Catelyn.

"It's magnificent!" Catelyn cried. "Father, please help me put it on. It's so beautiful."

"Not more beautiful than my daughter, as I'm sure even Lord Rickard knows. Perhaps he thought a mere necklace might outshine my Cat but he will find himself wrong when he sees you tonight," Lord Hoster said, chuckling. Over her father's back, Catelyn stuck out her tongue at Lysa, quite forgetting the dignity of her fifteen years. After he had helped her put it on, he drew Lysa back. "Come, child, let your sister see herself. We must not stand in the light of her glory."

It was a garland of twining roses of all shapes and ages, buds and blossoms and full-blown flowers, made of carved sapphires. The curling leaves and prickly thorns were fashioned of glittering diamonds. They glowed as though lit by some inner fire and Catelyn stroked one rich blue petal with the tip of her finger and sighed.

"I must thank him," she said. "I know they would have come to me in time but still- what should I say to him, Father?"

"You need say nothing," he said. "He will be able to tell from the smile on your pretty face how very happy and grateful you are. If you would truly thank him, be all that he expects of you. Be an obedient wife to his son, bear him a crop of healthy sons and be a loving mother. Do your duty, even if your lord husband does not, even if he strays you never must - that is a woman's lot. That is all that he would ask of you." He chucked her chin. "A tall order but you were raised to it, Cat."

"Family, duty, honour," Catelyn said quietly. Those were the words of House Tully, the words she had once said with such pride. Today, they sounded hollow. "I have always done my duty, Father. You know I have."

"Yes, little Cat." He reached forward to stroke her hair, a tenderness in his face that she had never seen when he spoke of her mother. "That's my good girl." He glanced at Lysa and she had the grace to blush and look down at her feet. He hesitated before adding carefully, "Brandon Stark is a hot-blooded young man."

"I thought him very comely and gallant," Catelyn said, for she had. "He has only ever been gentle to me and he is said to be honourable." Perhaps it was not very maidenly but she did not shy away from the thought of bedding him - it would be her duty but it would be a pleasurable one, she thought.

"And so he is," her father said. "But you might hear tales told of him, tales that might not be false..."

"A woman?" Lysa said waspishly, all eyes and ears now. She smiled sweetly at Catelyn.

"If there is a woman, that is nothing new in a young man of passion, Lysa," Catelyn said coolly. "I am no child to think that I would be the first in his heart, nor to reproach him."

"Then I have raised a better daughter than Lord Rickard," her father said. "He says the girl is averse to the Baratheon match because of some talk she has heard about some child he fathered in Vale... no matter. She will stay with us at Riverrun and you can teach her better, Cat."

"So honourable Brandon Stark has fathered a little Snow?" Lysa asked curiously.

"No," their father said shortly.

"A long-standing attachment?" Catelyn asked curiously. "Perhaps some serving girl that has caught his fancy for some years now? I do not see why that should threaten me or mine, so long as he intends to go through with our marriage, even if he keeps his woman close by him. My sons will be trueborn and I will send hers away where they will pose no threat. Even if I am not the first in his heart, I shall always be the first at his home and hearth."

She was proud of her little speech - it sounded like something a woman of the world would say, wise and weathered. Privately she was nowhere near as calm as appeared. _It might be a rumour,_ she thought desperately. _Please let it be a rumour._

"It is not some common woman whom you might send where you will with a little persuasion," Lord Hoster said quietly. His face was very grave now. "And it is no rumour - Lord Rickard spoke of it to me himself, he wished for me to prepare you in case... well his son is rash, a gallant fool."

"Not a lady?" Lysa demanded, all wide eyes. "Don't tell me it's some pretty young widow!"

Lord Hoster's face twisted. "The Northmen have barbrous queer customs and the way they see fit to raise their daughters - I used to think the little Stark girl was a trial. It was a noble maiden of a northern house with whom he was much enamoured when he was a boy fostered at Barrowton."

Catelyn held on tighter to the cold stones, as though it was a bright, glittering shield from her sister's malice and her septa's pity. "But he likes me well enough now," she said swiftly. "So she can mean nothing to him - he gave her up willingly. A loose, vile creature, perhaps he has had his way with her and tired of her as men do."

"Perhaps." Lord Hoster said gently. "Perhaps not. You must prepare yourself for either eventuality, Cat. And you must do your duty no matter what he says or does."

"Family, duty, honour," Lysa said sweetly. "Don't worry, Father. Cat will always do her duty."

"Lysa Tully," their septa said sharply. "It is not kind or graceful to wish ill upon others and gloat in their misfortunes. The gods are always watching us."

Catelyn curtseyed. "Of course, my lord. I shall do my duty." She stared Lysa down. "And I shall pray that my sister has as much joy from whatever marriage you make for her as she hopes I shall have from mine."

* * *

><p><em>"Brandon loved his sword. He loved to hone it. 'I want it sharp enough to shave the hair from a woman's cunt,' he used to say. And how he loved to use it. 'A bloody sword is a beautiful thing,' he told me once."<em>

_"You knew him," Theon said._

_The lantern light in her eyes made them seem as if they were afire. "Brandon was fostered at Barrowton with old Lord Dustin, the father of the one I'd later wed, but he spent most of his time riding the Rills. He loved to ride. His little sister took after him in that. A pair of centaurs, those two. And my lord father was always pleased to play host to the heir to Winterfell. My father had great ambitions for House Ryswell. He would have served up my maidenhead to any Stark who happened by, but there was no need. Brandon was never shy about taking what he wanted. I am old now, a dried-up thing, too long a widow, but I stil remember the look of my maiden's blood on his cock the night he claimed me. I think Brandon liked the sight as well. A bloody sword is a beautiful thing, yes. It hurt, but it was a sweet pain._

_"The day I learned that Brandon was to marry Catelyn Tully, though … there was nothing sweet about that pain. He never wanted her, I promise you that. He told me so, on our last night together … but Rickard Stark had great ambitions too. Southron ambitions that would not be served by having his heir marry the daughter of one of his own vassals."_

**- A Dance with Dragons**

* * *

><p>He leaned against the tent-flap, stiffing his laughter as best as he could with the back of his hand. "Oh come on, Lya - just one peek?"<p>

She was giggling too, though she made valiant efforts to muffle it. "No!" she squealed. "No, no, no!"

"Just a little glance-?"

"I'm not decent yet, Brandon!"

"Then why d'you have Ben with you?"

"I mean I'm not pretty yet!"

"Oh little sister," he chuckled. "Sweet little sister, you'll always be pretty to me."

She poked her face out of the flap suddenly and stuck out her tongue at him. "Stop teasing!" she ordered him. "Go... polish your sword or something."

"Lya, do you _know _what it means to tell a man to polish his sword?"

"I'm told it's very enjoyable," she said sweetly and grinned. "Now shoo - I want to be just perfect before you see me."

Benjen poked his head too, his chin resting on the top of Lyanna's head. She squealed and rolled her head back inside while Ben said, "Do as she says, Brandon or else she'll take forever. She's so-" He yelped and suddenly, he was dragged back in again.

Brandon chuckled and decided to leave them to it. He rose and stretched, remembering what Barbrey would tell him on the nights that she made him wait outside her door while she readied herself for him. _Go polish your sword, _she'd say, her husky voice muffled to a girl's whisper by the heavy oak door. _Yes, harder, faster, moan so that I can hear you, my love..._

"Ah Brandon, there you are. I thought you would be with Ned." It was his father. He had been with Ser Kevan Lannister and Lord Jon Arryn, Brandon knew.

"I was, for a while. I thought Lya would be ready by now."

"Let her take all the time she wants," Lord Rickard said indulgently. "She has never fallen prey before to girlish whimsies - I take this as a good sign. And besides, I would see her shine as she should among the southron maidens though they would like to dismiss her as only a northman's daughter."

"Lya would shine anywhere and in anything," Brandon said warmly. "In chainmail and boiled leather as well as in silks and samites."

"Let us hope that she decides to lay the chainmail aside for tonight," Lord Rickard said dryly. "Come let us take a walk. It will be some time before your sister is ready and the feast is not for hours."

He fell into step beside his father. Dusk was gathering, and within the great silk tents braziers and lamps had been lit so that they looked like the lanterns of coloured paper that Lya and Ben would fashion as children. Bright shields stood proud at the entrances and from within came the sounds of music and laughter. Clustered around each great lord's pavilion there were lesser tents of felt or canvas for his men, dark and rude and plain.

At the edge of the flowering meade where the lords had pitched their tents, there was a stream bordered by fruit trees. _A hedge knight's dream come true, _Brandon thought wryly. Pages watered their lords' mounts at the stream and it was towards there that Lord Rickard directed his footsteps. He stood with his back to the towers of Harrenhal and Brandon knew that though he would never admit it, he half-believed in the curse of the castle.

He could hear the faint wood-notes of a pipe playing, sad and sweet and wild. He knew the sound of it well but it was not some southron instrument. "Lya's greenman is abroad," he observed. "It would have been better if he were back in the tent with her." But they were a restless, inquisitive folk, he knew, and Howland Reed seemed even less placid than most of his kind. _Even their castles are said to move._

Lord Rickard said nothing. His silence was withering and Brandon checked the jape about greenseers that rose to his lips. Clearly it was not the time for trifles.

"Will you tell me about your business with the Lannister?" Brandon asked quietly. It was the only thing he could think of, though he was not as curious as he supposed he ought to be. In truth, he found it dull to keep up with his father's southron ambitions though he knew that he would be expected to further them in time. He wanted to be a good son, a dutiful heir of whom his father would be proud but sometimes he found it hard. _Catelyn Tully ought to help me with that, _he thought. _She is all about duty. _A sweet little maid, fair to look upon, in truth. He was fond enough of her and would be a good husband to her, of course. Perhaps he would come to love her, when they had children of their own.

"In time." His father sounded surprised. "Though I thought you had guessed." Now Brandon felt a fool. "Lord Ryswell has written me. His daughter is to be married to Willam Dustin. He hopes that we will grace the wedding."

"I wish Barbrey and Willam well," Brandon said simply. It seemed to be expected of him and really, what more was there that he could say. "They have known eachother for years."

"A strong-willed young woman, from what I remember of her," Lord Rickard said. "Not unhandsome but proud and filled with her own conceit and not given to a maiden's modesty."

"You say it as though it were ill," Brandon said mildly. He could feel his temper rising but he spoke evenly all the same. "Why should all maidens be shrinking violets, delicate flowers to be plucked and tossed aside without a murmur? Perhaps that is the southron way but in the north, our women are made of sterner stuff." It was often said of northwomen, they were all as fierce as their men, they had to be - from the Mormont she-bears who would cast the reavers from their shores to the wolf women of Winterfell who had warred against the wildlings and winters for years untold. "I thought her a fine girl, as did Willam and many other men."

"But then," his father said, speaking softly, almost as though to himself. "She is no maiden, after all." He looked directly at his son. "You dishonoured her."

"It was no dishonour, my lord," Brandon said coolly. "She was willing and I was willing and neither were promised elsewhere. Where is the dishonour in that? It is the natural way of things."

"She was a highborn maiden, not some kitchen tart you could bounce upon your knee."

"She was a woman with a woman's wants," he said quietly. "Lord Ryswell had no quarrel with the nights I spent with her, though he knew well enough. Neither did Willam, he fancied one of her waiting women. It is the older way, Father, and you know it. Even know, among the Umbers and the mountain clans there is seldom a marriage made without a belly growing on the bride so that a man knows that the wife he is buying is strong and fertile."

"Lord Ryswell threw the girl at you hoping that a taste of honey would sweeten you for her."

"He was not wrong," Brandon said wryly. "He had ambitions but so did you and now I am promised to Catelyn Tully and she to Willam. That is an end to the matter and I shall forget it entirely. I mean to honour my lady wife and do my duty by her."

"You had better," Lord Rickard said grimly. "I shall trust to your honour for I dare not put my faith in your sense of duty. Duty is as dry as dust and you like the taste of a woman wet and willing better, do you not, son? Like that little Ryswell whore."

"She was no whore, Father," Brandon said quietly. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword lightly. "She was a young woman very much in love with me and I shall challenge _any_ man who might dare say otherwise."

"And were you a young man very much in love with that sweet young maid?"

Brandon looked away. "For a while," he said quietly. He thought about it. "No, I think not. But I was much attached to her. She was willing, as you say, and she had a sharp tongue and a quick wit that pleased me well. We were playmates since we were scarce more than children, since you sent me to be fostered in her father's household when I was seven, and it seemed so natural... gods, I hope I have not made her unhappy." He had though, he knew. Parting from Barbrey had been one of the hardest things he had ever done - he did not like to think of it now. What good would it do when they were now promised, when they could mean nothing to eachother?

_She likes Willam almost as much, _Brandon thought, remembering how she would coquette with Willam - usually to make Brandon jealous though. _And Catelyn is a good girl, she deserves tenderness and love. _

"She's a wily girl," Lord Rickard said. He was watching Brandon with a shrewd look in his narrow eyes. "And if she doesn't come rushing to Winterfell sooner or later, to throw herself upon you again then I've never known a man or a woman in my life. And you're so rash and hot-blooded, you might let her wind her toils around you."

"We would be married-"

He snorted. "Marriages can be dissolved. Adultery - and wouldn't that chit make sure you were caught? I know her father, I know her. Full of spite, willing to play the long game to get what she wants - she's not your kind, Brandon. I fear you're overmatched but the little Tully girl isn't. She would make you stay if she could but her head's filled with ideas of giving way to her lord husband, even if he's gone stark raving mad. And your marriage is not a game of a moonstruck boy and a wily girl playing in the springtime - it is a winter's wedding."

_A winter's wedding, _Brandon thought wearily. _An alliance of state. _"I know it is. Just as Lya's is, though she hates it."

"Your sister is wild and wilful," his father said coolly. "In a man that is bad enough, in a woman unendurable. I love her well but that will not serve her in the south - she is not to be a Barbrey Ryswell who imagines she can make her own way. I shall send her to Riverrun, to be put under Catelyn Tully's charge."

Brandon looked at him curiously. "Why do you mislike Barbrey so? Is it because I have lain with her and you think I would risk all to be with her and disrupt your grand plans? Or is it because she dared to make her own way and fall in love with a man she was not bidden to?"

Lord Rickard snorted. "She was bidden to," he said acerbically. "Her lord father would have served you both his daughters' maidenheads on a silver platter if he thought it might make one of them the Lady of Winterfell. I mislike her because she is a fool and a proud, haughty, ill-tempered fool. She would have brought out the worst in you, the wolf-blood, for she is too like you. Catelyn Tully will check and curb you and make a man of you."

"A fool?" Brandon thought, incredulous. "Father-"

"She called Maester Walys a grey rat," his father said. "A man of venerable years and wisdom who has given us only leal service and wise counsel for the gods know how long. And that is not all, she is as cruel as she is backward and utterly convinced of herself. Sweet enough when everything goes fair for her but see how fast she can turn sour." He gave a sharp bark of a laugh when he caught the look on Brandon's face. "But of course you have only seen her at her honeyed best. And a girl in love can be quite a different creature."

"And yet," Brandon could not stop himself from saying, "If Catelyn Tully had the same nature as Barbrey Ryswell but was still Lord Tully's daughter you would still go through with my marriage."

"No," his father said simply. "I would not. I would look to her sister or a Lannister girl, a Martell or a Greyjoy with a nature that would work better with yours. I would seek a great alliance for you all the same, for these are not easy times we move in but I would choose a helpmate for you. I would want my son to be happy and you would never be happy with the Ryswell girl, after you'd wearied of your rutting with her."

"And you think Lya will be happy with Robert?"

"Yes," his father said. "He will give her a merry life at court, he will indulge her for he is a generous man and love her children. They might quarrel frequently but those will wash away like summer storms and leave them sunnier for it afterwards. He will lie with other women, but many men do and she shall be the first in his heart for she is his Ned's sister."

Somehow Brandon could not see that happening. His father was always quick to dismiss Lyanna as a spoiled child but she wasn't. She was a girl who was growing up faster than he thought. She had never acted as he bid and it did not stand to sense that she would think as he bid. "She doesn't think so."

"She has spent fourteen sheltered years playing with sticks and singing to trees. I doubt that she has learnt to think at all."

Brandon grimaced. "And you've let her."

His father shrugged. "She's only a girl," he said brutally. "She does not need to think, she only needs to know how to be charming and she does that well enough. In fact it is better for her if she never learns, she will be all the happier for it."

"Fools rush where the saints fear to tread," Brandon quoted wryly.

"I won't have her rushing anywhere she can do harm," his father said serenely. "I will mew her up as close as a falcon and when I release her, it will be into Robert Baratheon's arms. She will be a woman wedded and bedded in a year or two and then it will be Lord Arryn who will have the rule of her and her husband until he learns to think for himself - which he never might, after all. Some men don't."

Brandon wondered if his father was speaking of him. "I-"

There was a giggle behind him and then two hands blotted the world out as they fell over his eyes.

"Lya, you stealthy little tracker," he said, catching hold of her wrists. "Let me go so I can see you, sweet sister." She withdrew them and he heard the rustle of silk as she moved - she must have been to some trouble to quieten the sound when she came sneaking up behind him.

Benjen was swinging a lantern round and round. "She made me come as her torchbearer," he said sulkily. "She thinks I'm her slave."

"And so you are," Lya said pleasantly. She stepped into the dancing circle of light so that they might look at her properly, twirling so that her skirts flared out. She giggled as she did when she was nervous or excited. "How do I look?"

There were spots of high colour in her pale cheeks and her eyes were as bright as molten silver. Her hair fell in glossy waves down her back, a vine of solid silver with roses of garnet and leaves of pearl wound in it. Her gown was southron style, the neckline low-cut and square, tight-laced at her slender waist. It was of crimson velvet like blood freshly spilt. The wide skirts were worked upon with weirwoods in white leather, their leaves lined in beads of black jet. She wore heavy garnet drops in her ears but she had left her long neck bare, it made her look more vulnerable somehow, delicate and desirable.

He caught her by the waist and twirled her. "I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful - a fairy's child."

She was laughing as she spun him around. "Her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild."

Brandon was about to sing the next line when Benjen suddenly piped up. He swung the lantern from side-to-side, as the Seven's Crone did, and chanted the only lines he remembered. "I saw pale kings, and princes too, pale warriors, death-pale were they all; they cried - 'The Rose of Winter hath thee in thrall!'"

He ducked behind their father before Lyanna, always liberal with her slaps where her brothers were concerned, could smack him. "Why'd you do that?" she demanded crossly. "You spoilt our song, stupid, and it was so pretty too."

"Peace, daughter," Lord Rickard said. He seemed in a lighter mood now, but then Lyanna always had that effect upon him. "Won't you take that for an omen, since you are so fond of omens? A dark omen, since they please you better than fair tidings?"

She snorted. "Benjen's as like to be a prophet as I am to wriggle out of my betrothal." She stuck her tongue at Ben. "What do you think of me, Father?" She curtseyed to show her skirts off to better effect.

Tenderly he put his hand under her chin and drew her towards him. "I think that I have the sweetest, truest, most loving daughter a man could ever hope for," he said, hugging her. "And it shall go hard for me when I must let you go."

"You don't have to," she whispered to him, her sweetness almost overpowering. Brandon could hear the note of desperation under the honey-currant voice. _This will not end well, _he knew from experience. _She's in one of her moods and the gods know it'll take days for this storm to blow over. There's no telling what she'll do before it does._ He remembered the time she had run away and managed to hide herself away in Mole's Town when she was twelve - it had taken them nearly a week to find her. Mole's Town, of all places. "You don't ever have to let me go, Father. I can stay with you and-"

But he only shook his head. "Hush, little one," he said, patting her head as though she were still a child.

Brandon winced, knowing that it would only serve to inflame her. _Let's hope she takes it out tonight on her dancing partners. _

"It's not fair for me," she muttered, pulling back from her father petulantly. "You know it isn't."

Lord Rickard sighed. "Stop thinking always of yourself, child," he said, sounding weary. "Life is not fair for any of us."

* * *

><p><em>"The day my father came to claim me, my mother did not wish for me to go. 'She is a girl,' she said, 'and I do not think that she is yours. I had a thousand other men.' He tossed his spear at my feet and gave my mother the back of his hand across the face, so she began to weep. 'Girl or boy, we fight our battles,' he said, 'but the gods let us choose our weapons.' He pointed to the spear, then to my mother's tears, and I picked up the spear. 'I told you she was mine,' my father said, and took me. My mother drank herself to death within the year. They say that she was weeping as she died."<em>

**- A Feast for Crows**

* * *

><p>She knelt like a poor woman with her forehead pressed to the Mother's feet and like any other poor woman, she prayed for a son. <em>Give me a prince, a son to follow his father and I shall ask nothing more of you, <em>she thought. _I would wash your feet with my heart's blood, my lady, I would give the laughter of my life and all the love that I have ever known, if you would but give me a son. Please._

She had been kneeling in Jeyne Lothston's sept for hours now, her knees scraped raw by the flagstones that she could feel through the silk and strewn rushes. A sharp pain wracked through her breast, there was a knife through her ribs and another through her back. She looked up to the Mother's face through a haze and the carved alabastar face shifted and blurred, changing into the cold and lovely face of Rhaella Targaryen.

_My Lady Mother, _she thought. The Mother's eyes were dark, beads of lapis lapuzli, but the queen's were the colour of a lilac dawn. _Would you pity me if you could see me now, as a mother who has shared her daughter's pain? Or would you only laugh me to scorn, sneer at my weakness as you always have?_

Elia had stumbled in upon the queen at her devotions once. She had not knelt on a velvet cushion, with her ladies in shining silks about her and all the beeswax candles alit as they were at the morning services that she was expected to attend as queen. She had been praying alone, in the hour of the wolf. The darkness had robbed her bright hair of all it's colour, it had been as white as an old woman's and the proud queen had stooped like a broken old woman, bent and bowed by suffering.

She prayed fiercely, like a mother who has been told that her son is dead, like a queen who has been told that her kingdom is lost. Rhaella had not even heard Elia entering to whisper her own sorrows to the only one she could tell, so lost had she been.

_Who were you praying for? _Elia thought again. _Your sons were safe. Or was it some dream?_

"Sister."

The man's voice ripped through the stillness like a knife through silk and her head came up with a painful jerk. She felt him scoop her up and cried out sharply at the pain. She had been kneeling for hours, ever since Rhaegar had left her without telling her whence he meant to go or whether he would come back for the feast. These moods came upon him, as sudden as Dornish sandstorms. The only thing she could do was endure them.

"What's this?" Oberyn's voice was falsely bright as he carried her, as he might a rag doll, to her bed. "Has he been torturing you? I could slit his throat for you if you liked." He propped her up with a cushion behind her back and one at her feet.

"Did no one ever teach you to knock?" she said mildly.

He tsked. "My ardour led me to forget my natural courtesy. I have not seen my sweet sister for months. And I have brought you back a gift from Oldtown, like I said I would." He snapped his fingers and it was then that Elia noticed the child behind him. Girl or boy, she could not tell which. The child had brown hair, hacked short, and was dressed as a well-born page might be, in the red-and-gold livery of House Martell.

"Lady Princess," the child said, sketching a little bow. "I am honoured to be at your service."

Oberyn ruffled the child's hair and beamed fondly. "Very pretty, Obara. Elia this is my natural daughter, Obara of Oldtown, and once I am through with her she shall attend upon you as a spearwife. Obara, show your aunt what you can do." He was about to toss his dagger to the child, who seemed eager enough to use it, before Elia interrupted him hastily.

"Thank you, Obara," she said with a smile. "I am sure you have been well-taught but some other time." When the girl looked crestfallen, she said quickly, "How old are you, dear? And do you remember your mother?"

"Ten, Your Highness," she said. "My lord father took me from my mother three moons ago. She was a dirty whore and she used to beat me and swore she'd sell me when I flowered though she said I wasn't worth a chipped copper."

Elia winced. "You may call me Aunt Elia," she said. "And no one will beat you now, child."

"My lord father will," the girl said promptly. "He said he'd beat me black and blue if I wasn't quick and strong and steady, like his daughter should be." She grinned. "I will be, you'll see, Lady Princess Aunt Elia. When I'm older I'll serve you as faithfully and truly as the White Knights do the King. I shall be your White Knight. Though I'll only be a woman, I'll be the Red Viper's daughter and that counts for something." She seemed desperately proud of that, poor little thing.

"I'm sure you will be, sweetling." Elia sighed and turned to her brother. "Do you mean to father a crop of seven daughters to wait upon me as my Queensguard? This is the third daughter you've shown me."

"My firstborn," Oberyn said, grinning. "Remember the time Mother took us to Oldtown to show you off to Baelor Breakwind? I visited one of the whores I'd had for old time's sake, she had masterful hands. I saw her child and marked the name she'd given her and the eyes and decided I'd come back for her later when she'd grown some. Just as I will for Nym and little Tyene - they're my daughters."

Nymeria would be about seven now. Elia remembered the scandal when Oberyn had brought her mother to King's Landing - a noble beauty of Old Volantis whom Queen Rhaella had called 'the serpent's whore'. Tyene's mother had been a golden-haired little septa, Mellario had written to tell her. The child was of an age with Arianne.

"I spied a bowl of fat grapes and peaches in the antechamber," Oberyn told his daughter. "Run along and devour them, your aunt and I have private business to discuss." After she'd left, he turned to Elia with a frown that promised trouble. "Praying, were you, sister?" he asked softly, drawing up a chair so that he might sit beside her and look down at her face.

"Yes," she said briefly. "Some of us go _do_ go to septs to pray, instead of soiling septas."

He grinned wolfishly. "Why she wanted so desperately to be soiled..." He chuckled. "Twas a pretty little sept, I'll give you that. It must be the littlest thing I've seen in Harrenhal yet - only a hundred people could pray comfortably in it."

"It was Jeyne Lothston's sept," she said quietly. "Aegon the Unworthy's mistress. She was a child of twelve when he corrupted her, sweet and innocent - she wanted to be a septa. When he was done with her, he built her the sept in her father's castle but he had gone too far with her. She went mad, poor thing. She was the last of the Lothstons and they say that she would hold feasts of human flesh and bathe in maidens' blood."

He grimaced. "An ugly end. Were you praying for her poor lost soul? Were you weeping for the ghosts of Harrenhal?" He brushed her cheek gently.

"I didn't know I was crying," she said.

"Was it him?"

Elia sighed. "It is never him, brother, as you very well know. I was praying for a son."

He could say nothing to her now. "You will have a son in time," he said awkwardly. "Soon."

"Soon is not soon enough."

Oberyn raised his eyebrows. "If he loves you as much as you say he does, he will wait. Or he will die without a son, and he will marry your daughter to Prince Viserys and the throne shall pass to the both of them."

"It is not him." She lowered her voice now. "It is the king."

His eyes were bright and wary now. "King Scab. What does he have in mind now?"

"He is mad," Elia said, remembering what Rhaegar had told her. "Who can tell what he has in mind now? The Spider thinks he is wroth with Rhaegar, the Queen says it is with me. This tourney... you know that he has not stepped out of the Red Keep for years, not since Duskendale. Why do you think he came now?"

"Who can account for a madman's follies?"

"All the lords of the great houses are here," she said quietly. "Aerys thinks that Rhaegar means to plot with them to throw him down."

Oberyn snorted. "As well loved as he is, he does not need to plot. If he were more man than milksop, he would have thrown his father down already and all he would need to do is snap his fingers."

"He is still his father's son," Elia sighed. "Though his mother urges him every day to do what she believes is needed for the good of the realm, she says it is his duty."

"Prissy wretch. Queen Rhaella has the right of it - I suppose he's too busy dreaming to bother himself."

Elia had to admit that he had a point. But Rhaegar was her husband and she had to defend him. "He has graver concerns." _And what will it avail me even if I give him a son? _she thought sorrowfully. _I will never bear another living child. __Better for me if I die in giving him a prince so that he might find another wife quickly. The dragon must have three heads. _

Oberyn rolled his eyes. "Graver concerns than his kingdom? But of course. This is Rhaegar _Targaryen_. Greatness and madness are but two sides of the same coin and you, sister, will only look on the side that pleases you most."

"That can be said of most men." She sighed heavily. "He is not mad, Oberyn, no matter what you say. You have never liked him, not since I was promised to him - you would never take to any husband of mine."

Oberyn did not trouble to deny it. He only ruffled her hair. "Passing queer, what I've been told of all these great betrothals," he said lightly. "Stark and Tully and Arryn and the Baratheon boy is all but a prince in name. It poisons Aerys' sleep, doesn't it?"

"Everything does," Elia said wryly. "Rhaegar is aware of those alliances. He means to bind House Lannister close to us with a marriage to Viserys. As for the Reach, Lord Tyrell has a son, he should be about the right age for Rhaenys..."

Oberyn laughed sharply. "Queen Rhaella won't like that," he predicted. "She'd want to keep it in the family."

"She was in love once herself," Elia murmured sadly. She looked up at her brother thoughtfully. "Have you ever been in love?"

"Love?" Oberyn frowned. "Truly sister, I wouldn't know. Love is warmth and safety, softness and tenderness and sympathy, can you ever imagine me wanting that?" His eyes lit up. "That reminds me, I saw a queer eastern woman in a caravan, she called herself a _maegi_-"

Elia laughed. "Half my ladies have been to her today, though I didn't and the strange little Stark girl didn't. She told Ashara that she would know three deaths and Lysa that her love would bring her death. What things to say to a pair of young girls! She foresaw a kinder fate for Catelyn, a long summer and an autumn cut short before the winds of winter blew. What did she see for you?"

Oberyn smiled. "That I would die in the name of a woman I loved. There are worse ways to die, don't you think, sister?"

"I would rather die in my bed," Elia said. "I would rather die knowing that I had done my duty with my children around me."

He stroked her hair. "Of course you will, sister. You will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with seven sons and your seven nieces ringed around you as your Queensguard. You will laugh to think that you once prayed for but one son and you will be happy with your milksop. Perhaps he will turn out to be less mad than he looks."

Elia laughed and punched his shoulder, just as though they were children. "You rogue, you know he's the handsomest man in the Seven Kingdoms."

"The _prettiest,_" Oberyn said. "_I _am the most handsome man. Why, even the men I've had say so." He frowned. "Speaking of your silver prince, where is he now? Practicing a song for the feast, one must presume. Does he hide in Summerhall to make songs? He always seems to have a new one every time I see him - not that they're bad but it's not what one likes to see in a king who might one day lead men to war."

"We are at peace. He might never need to lead men to war." _And he is making the greatest song of all. The Song of Ice and Fire that our son will sing. _

"Houses Stark, Tully, Arryn and Baratheon might beg to differ." He was not playing the boy now, he was deadly serious. "Keep your eyes on them, sister. He won't but you will have to when you are Queen. Does he never tell you where he comes and goes? If it were any other man, I would say it was a woman that kept him away from the loveliest princess in all the world but-"

"-but he is Rhaegar Targaryen," Elia said smiling. "And I am all the woman that he will ever need."

Oberyn smiled. "Cocky are we? It's good to see in you, Elia."

"Of course I'm cocky," Elia said lightly. "For I am in love with the greatest men that ever lived and he is in love with me." _And if I were your forest lass and you my forest love that would be all we would need, _she thought sadly, though she smiled for her brother who loved her best of all the women he had ever known. _But you are Rhaegar Targaryen and I am only the woman who cannot give you a son. _

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yes, as you can tell I really don't like Barbrey Dustin. The song Brandon and Lyanna were singing is 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci' with the words a bit changed. About Lyanna's character (yes, I do think GRRM beatifies her a lot and that grates on my nerves, just as he does with Arya and Daenerys), this is in response to one of my reviews:  
><strong>

**I think I want to have Lyanna as a mercurial character, a girl in her early teens whose character is changing quickly and has not yet hardened into it's final shape, who is easily influenced by circumstances and the people around her. Elia and Rhaegar already have definite characters and in the books the adults like Cersei and Catelyn and Ned all have certain set personalities which change very little. But the children, like Sansa and Arya and even Daenerys throughout her arc are rapidly changing and that's what I wanted to convey in Lyanna's character. That she's still very young and impressionable, easy to influence, quick to fall in love, willful and reckless and immature and somewhat spoiled. **


	11. Eddard: The Hall of a Hundred Hearths

_"Under Harren's roof he ate and drank with the wolves, and many of their sworn swords besides, barrowdown men and moose and bears and mermen. The dragon prince sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle, but when her pup brother teased her for crying she poured wine over his head. A black brother spoke, asking the knights to join the Night's Watch. The storm lord drank down the knight of skulls and kisses in a wine-cup war. The crannogman saw a maid with laughing purple eyes dance with a white sword, a red snake, and the lord of griffins, and lastly with the quiet wolf... but only after the wild wolf spoke to her on behalf of a brother too shy to leave his bench._

_"Amidst all this merriment, the little crannogman spied the three squires who'd attacked him. One served a pitchfork knight, one a porcupine, while the last attended a knight with two towers on his surcoat, a sigil all crannogmen know well." _

_"The Freys," said Bran. "The Freys of the Crossing." _

_"Then, as now," she agreed. "The wolf maid saw them too, and pointed them out to her brothers._"

**- A Storm of Swords**

* * *

><p><em>Sometimes she thought they were all mice within those thick walls, even the knights and the great lords. The size of the castle made even Gregor Clegane seem small. Harrenhal covered thrice as much ground as Winterfell, and its buildings were so much larger they could scarcely be compared. Its stables housed a thousand horses, its godswood covered twenty acres, its kitchens were as large as Winterfell's Great Hall, and its own great hall, grandly named the Hall of a Hundred Hearths had thirty and some (Arya had tried to count them, twice, but she came up with thirty-three once and thirty-five the other time) was so cavernous that Lord Tywin could have feasted his entire host, though he never did. Walls, doors, halls, steps, everything was built to an inhuman scale that made Arya remember the stories Old Nan used to tel of the giants who lived beyond the Wall.<em>

**- A Clash of Kings**

* * *

><p>There were a hundred hearths in Black Harren's hall and tonight all of them were lit.<p>

Along one wall were arrayed the shields of all who would sup tonight at Lord Whent's table. There were hundreds of them, it seemed to Ned - birds and beasts of all descriptions, fish and fruit and flowers, wheels, ships, books, sea-maids and flayed men, spears and maces and swords, suns and moons and stars. Behind the high table, the stone was draped with the royal banner and the gold-and-black of House Whent.

The rushes were scattered with mint and wildflowers, their fragrance sharp and sweet as a spring morning when crushed. Beeswax candles, as long and thick as a blacksmith's arm, glowed in iron candelabras. Woven portraits and scenes in jewel-colored silks and silver and gold stretched along the walls. Clearly the Whents did not want to leave anyone in doubt about their wealth. _So much pomp and show, _Ned thought, _and all for what? _He had the habitual caution of a northman and he wondered if the Whents were not calling down the wrath of the gods upon themselves. _A wise man knows when to keep low. _He wondered if he ought to tell his father that.

The Starks as the Wardens of the North held a place of high honor on the dais. Ned sat with his brothers and sister, near Robert and the Tullys. His lord father was seated between Lord Arryn and Lord Tully - a triumvirate of power that he had noticed the King did not look pleased to see.

The King was resplendent in cloth-of-gold, his silvery hair bound back from his brow by a crown set with chunks of black diamond. Contrary to all ceremony he had his pyromancer, a beady-eyed little rat of a man, seated on a footstool next to him. Occasionally he would bend over to listen to the man's whispers. Ned caught his father smiling sardonically as he watched them and then, a moment later murmuring something into Lord Tully's ear that made the red-haired lord throw back his head and laugh.

There were seven courses, in honor the seven gods of the south, and seven-and-seventy dishes served at each. Ned, raised in great households, was not unused to luxury but the fare served at the table was so magnificent that he wondered if even the royal court would pale in comparison.

In between the courses, there were jugglers and jesters, sword-swallowers and fire-eaters to entertain the guests. There were eastern dancing girls who made the Tully girls purse up their lips, in see-through gowns of golden net, with jewels in their noses and navels. There were minstrels and singers with voices so sweet that Lyanna and Lysa began to sigh, their eyes misted over. Both girls were inordinately fond of music. There were dwarves fighting mock tourneys on pigs with children's swords and even a dancing bear.

Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia shared one trencher. Her gown of yellow silk washed out her sallow complexion and she looked almost too sickly to join them at the banquet. Ned noticed that Ser Kevan Lannister, Lord Tywin's eyes at the tourney since he had not chosen to attend himself, was eying her up as keenly as he would a mare that he had placed a bet on. He also noticed that his sister had only eyes for Prince Rhaegar.

Not at all surprising, given that half the women in the hall seemed in love with the silver prince - though Ned considered his beauty almost feminine in nature and not near as appealing as Robert's looks. _He looks half a woman, _he thought of the Prince of the Dragonstone_._ "I thought you were above all this," he teased his sister. "You look like a lovesick girl, Lya."

She blushed hotly. "He has such pretty hair," she insisted, "I was only looking at the way it caught the light."

He snorted. "Of course, sweet sister. Of course."

Brandon who had heard something of their conversation leaned over. "The princess does not look well," he observed, voicing what was on everyone's mind. "The rumors say that the maesters have told her that she will never bear a living child again."

Catelyn gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in horror. Lysa looked very interested. "So what happens then?" she asked, leaning forward, her elbows on the table. "Who does the prince marry then? He's going to need a heir."

"Oh there'll be plenty of people to take up Princess Elia's place," Brandon said lightly. "The gods rest her soul," he added piously.

_The Lannister girl, _Ned thought but he did not say anything. Lyanna though was eying up Ser Kevan Lannister with a little grimace on her face. She smiled innocently at him when he noticed her. The Tully girls however continued to look politely puzzled. _So you're cleverer than you let on, aren't you, Lya? Does it ever frustrate you when Father or Brandon take you for a child or a fool? Even though you want so badly to impress them?_

He let his eyes wander around the hall while the others made polite conversation over his head. There was a lovely young girl seated among the princess's ladies. Her eyes were as violet as a Targaryen's but her glossy hair, bound back from her brow by a chaplet of gilded leaves, was black. Lyanna noticed him and giggled.

"I thought you were above all this, sweet brother," she murmured. "You look like a lovesick boy, Ned." After a moment she took pity on him and added, "That's Ashara Dayne. Don't you think she's very pretty?"

"Yes," Ned said slowly. In truth she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She wore a gown of silvery satin and when she threw back her head and laughed at a jape, her whole face lit up. _A merry face, _he thought, _one made for laughter_. He was not a man for laughter and jests, the gods knew. And he had neither good looks nor high fortune to impress a girl of such grace and loveliness.

"Prettier than your own sister?"

"Wha- ah no, Lya. Of course not." He must have said it a moment too late for Lyanna's pleasure for she was already whispering to Brandon, eyebrows waggling and pointing to Ashara. He winced, already expecting his older brother to burst out laughing and tease him - and for Robert to join in as well. But for once Brandon seemed disposed to be kind.

Certainly his eyes were full of sympathy as he leaned over and said, "You should ask her to dance, Ned."

"What?" He was appalled.

"Don't you like her?"

"Yes-"

"He blushes like a maid in love," Lyanna said waspishly. "Don't be stupid, Brandon, do you think our Ned's ever asked a girl to dance before? He couldn't ask a girl to do anything. He's not _Robert_. Or you." She smirked.

Brandon brushed off their sister with a wave of his hand. "You should," he said very earnestly. "She's a lovely girl."

Ned lowered his eyes. "I will," he said, though he had no intention of doing so_. The very idea._ But it was better to let Brandon think he had relented then to refuse and have him nag for hours.

"You do that," Brandon said warningly, "or I'll ask her on your behalf myself."

"Lya look!" Benjen said suddenly. "Aren't those the squires we saw hitting Howland today?" He pointed his finger towards three boys in their early teens, seated at a lower table.

Lyanna scowled, thumping her goblet on the table so violently that the wine sloshed out, bleeding on the bleached linen tablecloth. Catelyn Tully raised a delicate eyebrow and said nothing. Lysa, less subtle than her sister, winced as dramatically as though Lyanna had pounded the goblet on her own face. "I wish I could teach them some manners." She turned to Brandon. "You should, you know. Howland is Father's bannerman, its only right that you stand up for him."

Brandon sighed. "They're only squires, Lya my love. They'll grow out of it."

"Not unless their masters teach them better," she said mutinously. "And I don't think they will. They're stupid southrons after all."

With a quick look at the Tully girls, Brandon said, somewhat more sharply than he had intended to perhaps, "Don't be a child, Lyanna. What would you have me do? Challenge their masters in combat, one against three, and then bid them teach their squires better?"

"Not combat," she said, latching on his words earnestly. "What about in the tourney? You could, you know."

"Perhaps," Brandon said, to humor her.

Lysa Tully giggled. "Sweet Lyanna," she said, her voice syrupy, "Perhaps you ought to teach them. You seem so skilled." Catelyn put a hand on her sister's arm in gentle reprimand but even her face was bright with amusement. Lyanna, who resented being laughed at, glowered at them and then in one gulp, drained her goblet.

"Maybe I will," she said coolly, "maybe I will."

She had always felt very strongly about injustice, Ned knew, but perhaps she was taking it a little too far. It was almost childish to expect everything in the world to be fair and just. _But what if she's right? _he thought. He could not suppress his guilt as he took the ideas of honor and justice so lightly. _If everyone believed as I did, who would stand up for those who could not stand up for themselves? _Perhaps it was better to think as a child did. He was musing over this when the prince rose to his feet.

The hall quietened as he walked slowly to the central hearth of the hall, a few paces from the royal dais. The hearth was so huge that it was said that you might roast an elephant from the Free Cities whole within it. A servant had lain a footstool for the prince and there he sat with his harp, like a minstrel.

"Ah, my sainted cousin," Robert sighed, rolling his eyes to show what he thought of the prince. He enjoyed a lusty drinking song himself and he liked to hear a pretty girl singing on his lap - naked preferably - but why any man would choose to learn to play a harp was beyond him.

"What is he doing?" Lyanna whispered.

"He often sings," Ned told her quietly. He had never heard the prince before but it was common knowledge. "They say he makes his songs at Summerhall."

"But why does he-" she began but stopped as the first faint chords of the music washed over them. Now that the prince would sing, the hall was all a-hush. It had an almost ghastly quality to it, the silence. As though they were a company of the dead, struck down on the most glorious day of their life and brought to answer for their sins by the gods.

_And how many of us will be alive in a year's time? _Ned thought. Death came too swiftly, too often. A man in the prime of his life might kiss his wife at the cottage door in the morning and be dead of plague by nightfall. A boy who was playing with tourney swords in the castle yard could be dead in a sixmonth, a dagger through his throat fighting for his lord in a field far from home. A maiden in the flush of her flowering could be made a bride, a mother and a corpse in the span of a twelvemonth.

He thought of this as the prince sang. He thought of the world burning and then coming to life again, like a phoenix from its ashes. He thought of the winds of winter, slaying without mercy, and the green mantle of spring. He thought of Lyanna's steel-colored eyes and of rivers red with blood, of blue roses and snow castles and a mother's kisses. He thought that men were fools to disparage the dragon prince for there was more - oh so much more - to him than met the eye. He bowed his head as the song died away.

The prince sat for a moment, his fingers light over the harp, and then he rose. He did not stop to acknowledge the thunderous applause, he went to the high table and kissed his wife's cheek. After taking his father's leave, he escorted the princess from the table, a few of her older ladies trailing after them. Ned knew that he would spend the night with her.

Lyanna's eyes were bright with tears that washed down her cheeks. "Oh that was beautiful, beautiful," Lysa murmured, her own eyes wet. Even Catelyn looked shaken. Brandon, who had his own eyes closed during the song, opened his, looking thoughtful. Only Robert sighed and rolled his eyes at them, as though he thought them a passel of fools for being so touched.

"You were crying," Ben told Lyanna, with a little boy's impudence. "Crying like a baby though you pretend you're so brave-"

Without a word Lyanna picked up her wine-cup and poured the contents over his head. Roughly, as though heartily ashamed of her moment's weakness, she began to wipe her face with her hands before Brandon handed her his kerchief. "Any woman would be mad not to love him," she said hoarsely, "any man a fool not to follow him."

Robert sighed heavily. "The music's starting," he said brightly, and grabbing Lyanna's hand pulled her out. "Let's dance!"

* * *

><p><em>And with such a wife, Rhaegar might never have looked twice at Lyanna Stark. The northern girl had a wild beauty, as he recalled, though however bright a torch might burn it could never match the rising sun.<em>

**- A Dance with Dragons**

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><p>The southron wine was sweet as honey on his tongue, spiced with cinnamon and golden as sunshine. All the same, Rickard Stark drank sparingly of it - he needed his wits about him. Kevan Lannister, the castellan of the Rock and Lord Tywin's most trusted brother, was equally discreet. They sipped together companionably from the high table, watching the dancers flowing through their steps like a river of colored silk.<p>

"It is a pity that your niece is not present tonight," Rickard observed smoothly. "I have heard tell that she is an ornament to the court. She would have shone tonight."

"My brother has chosen to reside at Casterly Rock for the present and so summoned her to attend on him," Ser Kevan said, smiling. "Though Cersei herself is not best pleased with his choice. She would rather be here, I think, jousting on the tourney field. She is a spirited young woman."

"So is my Lyanna," Rickard said dryly, remembering the countless scrapes she had gotten into - and still did. "And she has not just the spirit but also the skill to wield a lance I sometimes think."

The lion lord was sulking in his cave, Kevan Lannister could frame it as prettily as he wanted but there the matter stood. The Mad King and his Hand were all but at war with each other and lesser men were scrambling to choose sides.

When Aerys had first come to the throne he had been a charming prince, though even in those days there had been stories told of a cruel heart, of his seduction of friendless noblewomen (even Joanna Lannister's name had been included) and if seduction failed, ravishment. He had been content to leave governance into more capable hands, such as those of the young Lord Lannister and a strong council.

Summerhall and Duskendale and the ravage of the years had worked their way on him though. One by one the members of the council had been dismissed, to be replaced by eunuchs from the Free Cities, eastern pyromancers and warlocks, smallfolk risen too high for their own good and anyone else who took Aerys' mad fancy. Lord Tywin's powers had been disparaged. And now, to add insult to injury, he had taken his son. Poisoned by his pet eunuch, he had decided to take the reins of the kingdom into his own hands.

_They say he burns men for pleasure, _Rickard thought, loathing filling his soul. _Of a certainty he rides roughshod over his lords and takes no opinions but his own into account. _The state of affairs was unpleasant enough already and Rickard knew that they would only get worse, once Tywin Lannister abandoned the King completely as he would soon do.

The Tyrells, oily as ever, were clinging to the royal faction like leeches. They would bring the might of the Reach and the crownlands with them. But Jon Arryn had chosen the Lannisters. Rickard had first fought with Arryn in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and in the twenty-odd years since had grown to greatly respect his judgment and experience. It had been something of an honor when Arryn had agreed to take Ned on for fostering in his own household.

The King mistrusted his son - indeed it was the sole reason that he had come to Harrenhal at all, to keep an eye on him - but Prince Rhaegar kept his thoughts close to his heart. As always. He would be a fool if he did not see the storm brewing - and he was not - but he seemed content to let things go on as they were, without making any moves of his own. Rickard wondered how long _that_ would last - whether the prince would ever strike against his father, indeed whether he was even man enough to do so. Certainly the Queen's thoughts on the matter were well-known - she had never loved her brother.

The realm was at an uneasy peace and no man could tell when the storm might break. A wise man would know that it was time to seek a safe haven.

"Your heir looks well with Lord Tully's daughter," Ser Kevan observed. "A most excellent match. My own nephew, Jaime, was betrothed to her sister as you must know."

Rickard's eyes strayed to Brandon and Catelyn, dancing together, and a small frown creased his forehead. Ah, his heir. He had done his best for Brandon but sometimes he despaired of the boy's recklessness. _Ned would have been the better choice, _he thought, _a great pity that we cannot choose our own heirs but must needs rely on the caprices of their order of birth. _Ned had a steadiness about him that Brandon would never have. He was not brilliant, he did not have Brandon's instinctive cunning or sudden (if rare) flashes of genius, but in his own sphere he was competent enough.

Rickard bowed his head gracefully at Kevan's compliment and was about to add one of his own regarding the Lannister children when his daughter flew breathlessly up to the dais. Her cheeks were as red as her gown and she held out her hands to him. "Come dance, Father," she insisted and a moment later dropped a belated curtsey to Ser Kevan.

Rickard chuckled and let her draw him into the charmed circle. They were dancing a _carola_, a ring of dancers interlinking hands. It was a spirited dance which much reminded him of the harvest dances of the smallfolk.

"Bless you child, you make him feel like a young man again," he told Lyanna.

She beamed at him. "You're not the first old man I've mad a lad of," she said coquettishly and nodded her head towards another circle of dancers who were dancing a more sedate _pavane. _"Look at Ned."

He squinted and then laughed softly when he saw. "What a beautiful young woman," he said, looking at his son's partner.

"Ashara Dayne," Lyanna told him. "Ser Arthur's sister."

"Gods above, where did the boy find the courage to speak to her?"

"He didn't," Lyanna told him. "He was looking at her all the time so Brandon went up to her and told her he was besotted and asked for a dance on Ned's behalf." She smiled. "Ned was furious - well as furious as Ned can ever be, which isn't much - but now he seems to be enjoying himself."

"Any young man in his place would. Your betrothed would be delighted if he could take my part at this moment," Rickard said pointedly. "Have you danced with him even once tonight, Lyanna?"

"Only once. When he dragged me out." Lyanna rolled her eyes. "He has no manners either, that one. He steps on my foot and crushes me like I'm a piece of meat. I don't need him, there are plenty of others who want to dance with me."

"It is only courtesy. And it would not harm you were you to get to know him better. You two are to be married, much as you would like to forget it." Sometimes he despaired of Lyanna as much as he did Brandon. Those two were the light of his life, they brought him the greatest joy and the most sorrow. Ned and Benjen were easier to handle and he loved them well, but they could never match up to the fire and spirit of the other two.

Lyanna heaved a martyred sigh and ignored him, as was her wont. "I saw the squires who attacked Howland this morning," she said, her voice filled with loathing. "A Blount, a Haigh and a Frey." Her face twisted in disgust. "I wish I could throw them out. They should be taught a lesson, shouldn't they, Father?"

He nodded assent. "I wonder what their masters are teaching them," he said in disgust. "Certainly not chivalry, which should be the foremost lesson a knight learns. Ah Lyanna, if you were a boy I believe you would have been a knight errant," he said, smiling. "A mysterious tourney knight intent on avenging the humble and weak."

"Like Ser Barristan," she said, smiling mischievously, her mood lightened. "If he could appear in the lists when he was only ten why can't I?"

They fell into the steps of the dance easily. Her face was as open as a child's as she twirled, a girl without a care in the world - she had always loved dancing. He was just considering the Dayne girl and wondering if her hand had been promised - the Daynes, though of ancient extraction were a lesser house and though Ned was only a second son he would have lands of his own when he was grown and the Daynes had many daughters - when Lyanna whispered, "Why is the King looking at you so queerly, Father?"

"Don't stare, child," he said automatically. "Keep your eyes down." Discreetly he looked towards the dais. Yes, it was true. Aerys was all but glowering at him, his hands white-fisted around his goblet. Taking Lyanna's arm, he gently drew them out of the circle and into a more secluded corner. The girl looked troubled, as well she should. "It is nothing to bother you," he said softly. "It is my business and mine alone."

"Is it about Robert and me?" she asked, with a flash of insight that he would not have expected of her. "Brandon and Catelyn? Is it something to do with your southron ambitions?" She made a face as she said the last two words.

"You could say that," he said slowly, as amused by her brightness as he would if a pet rabbit had performed an unusually clever trick.

"I'm not a child you know, Father," she said with grave dignity. "You can choose to treat me like one but that doesn't mean I won't find out things by myself. I'm not stupid."

"Though you do a very good impression of it," he said indulgently, ruffling her hair. "Think over it, if you choose to. As I repeat, it has nothing to do with you." She was too young to worry about this - and it was a matter of worry. The King saw traitors in every shadow and Rickard's "southron ambitions" _would_ be a grave cause of worry to him. If he chose to take out his resentment on the Starks, the consequences would be... grave. "I won't be able to dance with you, sweetling. I will need to find Lord Arryn and Ser Kevan. Go back with your brothers when they leave."

He kissed her forehead. "Do not trouble yourself, child. This is none of your concern."

* * *

><p>He thought her a child.<p>

They all did really - a child to be humored when the mood suited them or else chided. She curled her fists tightly, wanting to lash out and knowing that she could not. Instead she went to seek out Howland. He was sitting on one of the lower benches, safely tucked in between two of her father's men. His face was as bright as a new-minted penny's as he looked on the dancers. His childlike enthusiasm made her smile too and she squeezed his arm as she slid in beside him.

"You should dance too," she told him.

He shook his head, smiling faintly. "I have not the skill, my lady. I saw you though - you looked beautiful."

"Really?" she said. Flattery was sweet balm to her hurt just now. But he didn't look like he was flattering her. He looked and sounded very earnest. "Even if you haven't done something before, that shouldn't stop you from doing it. Its easy." She rose and pirouetted on the spot to show him. "And fun." When he looked faintly embarrassed she sighed and sat down next to him, deciding not to press the point. "I'll sit with you. I'm tired of dancing with stupid men who never listen to me."

Howland looked politely interested though she was sure he had just as much experience as she had of being thrust to the side and ignored - or belittled. "Its because they think my head's stuffed full of feathers. Its because I'm a girl." She pursed up her lips and began to tap the floor in time to the music. "Don't you sometimes want to scream at it all? Even though it wouldn't help, don't you just want to?"

"My lady," the little crannogman said, raw emotion in his voice, "if I could I would drive a lance straight through them on the jousting field. I would show them a hundred times over that we are not the scum of the earth for them to wipe their feet on."

"Why can't you?" she said childishly and then remembered. She wondered if he could ride. Certainly jousting would be out of the question for him.

"Someday they might meet an unpleasant end in a murky bog," he said dryly, "but now there is nothing I can do, dearly as I would like to. I am a man as well though I might seem small to you."

"At least you're a man," she said softly. "I'm not. I could though," she said wistfully, "If I wanted to. I'm the best rider at Winterfell. I've tilted at the quintain against Ben and Brandon. All I'd need would be armor and a shield. I could be a mystery knight." She thought about it for a moment and then began to smile. She grabbed Howland's hand and hauled him to his feet. "Lets go find Ben!"

Her little brother was listening to a bard who sang a song of the Black Knights of the Wall. His eyes shone as he listened and when Lyanna tapped him on the shoulder he said decisively, "I'm going to take the Black."

"Father might not like that," Lyanna said ominously but then she hugged him. "Forget Father. Do what you want."

Howland was all but hopping from one foot to the other as she told Benjen her plan. "My lady," he began, again and again, only to be shushed by either Benjen or her.

"I think its a splendid idea!" Benjen announced. He was half-drunk on tales of chivalry already. She was glad of it - she needed his support for what she was going to do. Brandon would only have laughed and then told Father if she'd confided to him, Ned would have sighed and while promising not to tell Father would have hounded her footsteps like a loyal and concerned nursemaid. "You can easily buy armor," he said, "and have a shield painted. I've seen the tourney booths where you can get them - they've sprung up like mushrooms after the rain. We have enough coin for it. For a horse..." he looked doubtful. "You can't use any of ours. Father would know."

"I'm not going to ride during the whole tourney, silly," she said, "I'm just going to ride against those squires' masters. And when I win-" she would win, she just knew she would -"I'll bid them teach their squires better manners." She smiled.

"Yes," Benjen said. "But what about the horse?"

"Catelyn's," she answered promptly. "Father bought one, its part of the bride-gift to the Tullys. Its as red as fire and with a temper to match. Excellent stock - I've ridden it before. She's never ridden it before so she won't know if I'm riding it during the tourney and I can easily get it - its stabled with ours." It was a beautiful idea, a glorious gem of an idea and she almost laughed to think that she hadn't thought of it before.

She clasped Ben's hands and they shared a conspiratorial smile. "We're going to be very busy tomorrow, aren't we, Ben?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So its been a wait of one-and-a-half years. I semi-abandoned this story because while I know exactly how it should go, the style of the previous chapters just bothered me and there's too much of it to change it. I'd be surprised if anyone is still reading this but if you are please leave a review :) Yes its shorter than my usual chapter length but I'll be adding more to it in a few days so please keep checking on it by and by. Oh and by the way, I was wondering if anyone would be willing to beta this story for me?  
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**From wikipedia:**

**The most documented form of dance during the Middle Ages is the carol also called the "carole" or "carola" and known from the 12th and 13th centuries in Western Europe in rural and court settings. It consisted of a group of dancers holding hands usually in a circle, with the dancers singing in a leader and refrain style while dancing.**


	12. Howland: Harrenhal

By mid-morning his lady's silk purse was as flaccid as a sow's ear. Coin she had in plenty - or so she said and thought - but mail never came cheap and it was never so dear as on the very morn of a tourney. She had started off with a plump purse; her father and brothers were indulgent and doted upon her, but all the same they had only supplied her with enough to buy a few woman's trinkets and gewgaws. They had thought that she had gone to see the market stalls with Lord Tully's daughters, she had given them the slip with the air of one practiced at deception.

To this end, the young lady was most aggrieved and after they had visited half-a-dozen stalls she shook her purse disconsolately. It did not chime as merrily as it had when she had first set out, with him and her youngest brother. "I never knew how dear armor came," she said wistfully, with the sweet innocence of a great lord's daughter. She fingered a fine pair of gilded vambraces longingly. At home, in her northern castle, she had no doubt a master smith and armorer and she was accustomed to plate and armor being conjured from thin air, as though by a magician's wand.

Her brother nodded gravely. "You could ask Robert for more money," he suggested brightly. "He _loves _you."

She grimaced and clouted him lightly on the head. "It wouldn't be _seemly_," she said, pitching her voice high so that it reminded one of a highborn lady's nasal drawl, "besides he'd want to paw up my skirts for the favor, Ben, you know that. Or he'd ask me what it was for." There was no help for it but they must return to the stalls they had visited, sell back the few pieces they had bought and gather under an apple tree in the meadow to reassess how much their purse could hold out for.

Lady Lyanna had heeded his gentle suggestion of the morning and dressed as plainly as a serving maid might. A highborn maid wandering through the smithy booths would attract undue attention and were she to be seen purchasing plate and mail fit for a tourney knight the rumors would spread like wildfire. _They would say it was for her lover in penury, _Howland well knew, _and if they saw her with me they would name me as her despoiler. _Lord Stark was a good and benign man, as high lords went, but he would never stand for a stain on his daughter's name.

Now she sat disconsolately under the apple tree, knees pulled up to her chest. Her gown was white lambswool, the hem spattered with blue roses. "What am I to do?" she demanded.

He could only see one solution for her. "My lady, you might permit me to make the purchases on your behalf." She had about as much notion of the ways of the world as a kitten might, nor did he blame her for it. She was too fair and fine and highborn for it.

She threw him a quick, mischievous look. "Aiding and abetting, Howland?" she teased him. "I could scarce be heard over the din of your recriminations last night."

"You will have your way, lady," he said neutrally. "I thought it folly to oppose you." _She will balk, _he had told himself this morning. _She will balk at the last moment and it will put an en__d to this madness. For sure anything I dared say to oppose her would only spur her further._

"You'll need a shield," her brother said suddenly. "And a device of your own since you must be a mystery knight."

"Yes!" she said eagerly, diverted from the weariness matter of suiting her meager funds to the task. She cocked her head, considering.

"Our arms with the colors reversed?" Benjen suggested. "A white wolf on a gray field."

_Too obvious, _Howland thought, exasperated by the child. Fortuitously the thought had occurred to Benjen's sister as well and she dismissed it. "A blue rose?" Howland suggested, inspired by her gown.

"Too maidenish," Lady Lyanna decreed. Thoughtfully she began to plait together the drifts of apple blossoms on the ground beside them. She was a highborn lady in all but her hands, Howland thought. They were strong hands, square-palmed and small-fingered, as ready for hard labor as a village maid's. The skin was tanned, knuckles shiny with calluses and feathered with fine cuts. She smiled when she saw him looking at them. "I ride like a northwoman," she said evasively.

"If you had a septa she'd make you sleep in chickenskin gloves to make them soft," Benjen told her sagely. "Leastways that's what I heard Lysa Tully tell her sister when she got a good look at your hands."

"Our arms with the colors reversed?" Benjen suggested. "A white wolf on a gray field."

_Too obvious, _Howland thought, exasperated by the child. Fortuitously the thought had occurred to Benjen's sister as well and she dismissed it. "A blue rose?" Howland suggested, inspired by her gown.

"Too maidenish," Lady Lyanna decreed. Thoughtfully she began to plait together the drifts of apple blossoms on the ground beside them. She was a highborn lady in all but her hands, Howland thought. They were strong hands, square-palmed and small-fingered, as ready for hard labor as a village maid's. The skin was tanned, knuckles shiny with calluses and feathered with fine cuts. She smiled when she saw him looking at them. "I ride like a northwoman," she said evasively.

"If you had a septa she'd make you sleep in chickenskin gloves to make them soft," Benjen told her sagely. "Leastways that's what I heard Lysa Tully tell her sister when she got a good look at your hands."

"Perhaps I should have a pair of chickenskin gloves as my sigil," she said absently. "A pair of bloody hands, a..." Suddenly her face brightened and she laughed. "A weirwood! Why didn't I think of that before? A white weirwood - what could be more fitting?"

"A laughing weirwood," he said softly, captivated by her face and the laughter brimming in her eyes. She had eyes as gray as a mist, a man could lose himself in those eyes. _Fool, _he told himself, _she's to mar__ry the storm lord and even if she were not promised, she's not for the likes of you. _He was her liege man, he could never aspire to be more.

"Yes," she agreed, blithely unconscious of the thoughts rushing confusedly through his mind. "I shall be the Knight of the Laughing Tree." She jumped up, pulling her brother up with her. Everything she did, she liked to have it done quickly. "Lets go see that woman over there painting the shields, Ben, we can talk to her." She giggled, "I'll tell her its for my sweet lover. Howland, you can go see the armorers for me, I suppose you'll have more luck with then than I did."

"Your wish is my command, lady," he said, inclining his head gravely as she skipped away, as merry as a child. And, much as he longed to, he never voiced his thoughts. _Nor will I ever, _he thought sadly. _For_ _never would it be meet. _

* * *

><p><em>He's as sweet as a coney, <em>Ashara decided, _and near as woolly-headed. _Ned Stark reminded her of her pets at Starfall - the lambs in the meadows, the pretty little fawn Arthur had once brought home from a hunt just for her, the fluffy little puppies tumbling out of their baskets in her stepmother's chamber. When she smiled at him, he would turn red as a poppy and once when she touched his arm lightly and unconsciously, he looked ready to burst out of his skin.

Lynesse called him a northern stoat and said he had no manners and how could Ashara stand to make polite conversation with him when he barely answered, but she felt a great tenderness for him. _He can't help himself, _she'd defended him, _he's just shy. _

_Oh well, _Lynesse had said with a shrug, resuming the brushing of her long golden hair, _if you want to adopt that horse-faced thing..._

Ned Stark's face was long and yes, it _did_ indeed remind one uncommonly of a horse, but Ashara had just begun to insist that it had a dignity of its own before she stopped herself. _He's just a boy to flirt with, _she reminded herself. _To amuse yourself with._ _He's not even the heir to Winterfell, you can do much better than him, surely you can. _Hadn't they all told her that? The coin of her power was her beauty, she must never squander it but wait instead for the highest of course she was too young to be thinking of marriage, only fifteen, when she married she would marry well, Ned Stark was only a plaything to divert her at the tourney...

Luckily, before she could snap at Lynesse, her princess had sent for her. Elia was in her own chamber, very poorly and with only her closest Dornish maids in attendance. She had thrown up twice after dinner and was sitting up in bed, sipping a cup of willow tea, when Ashara came. She had wanted some chatter and light company, a little music to soothe her before bed. _Prince Rhaegar should be with her, _Ashara thought as she often did, _if he loves her as much as he claims why is he never there when she needs him? _Still she had not voiced her doubts, she knew better than to do so by now. More like than not, the prince was ensconced in the great libraries at Harrenhal - he could never resist the lure of a book he had not read. _If I were his wife I would never be as meek and indulgent as Elia, _she thought, _I would __blow the roof down yelling for him. _

Afterwards, when Elia was fast asleep, Ashara had dared asked Alys Santagar, one of the senior ladies of Elia's bedchamber, if she suspected anything. Did she think her food might be poisoned?

"She had a taster," that dour dame had told her. "And he's fine, as far as I've had word. I fear the poison's inside her, poor lady." And when Ashara had stared at her, not comprehending, she had patted her belly gently.

_No, she can't, _Ashara thought. _It would kill her to have another baby. _But she knew as well as any of the princess's woman that even so, Elia would die in trying to do her duty.

"You look grim, my lady."

They were walking together in the flower gardens at Harrenhal, in the time before the tourney would begin. He had surprised her when she was picking flowers to wear in her hair, he had been going to the godswood he told her and she invited him to help her with her flowers.

She was thinking on Princess Elia and she looked up startled when Ned Stark spoke. "I feel grim," she said honestly. With another man she would have laughed lightly and diverted the conversation. _Men want to be amused, not preached at, _her stepmother had told her. But with this one it was different, his face was solemn but his eyes were kind, he looked as though he might understand her. _And they say northmen are of a serious bent of mind, not much given to laughter anyways. _"I was thinking about the princess. She is so poorly." She did not of course reveal what Alys Santagar had told her - it was early days and it might not mean anything after all. _Pray gods it does not. _

_"_No one can take her place," she said rebelliously, "the Lannisters try their best to push their girl at our lord prince, but I've known Cersei since we were both twelve years old. She's a _dreadful _thing, spoiled and selfish. She would make a terrible wife for Rhaegar and I don't think he likes her much either."

"You speak of their marriage as though it were a settled thing," Ned observed dryly. "Why should he take the lady to wife if she is not to his liking?"

In spite of her worries she could not help laughing at him. "You are an innocent in the ways of the court, Ser Eddard," she said, "has Lord Arryn taught you nothing?"

He smiled, not at all hurt by her teasing. She liked that about him - some men were so quick to take insult. "He has done a poor job with both Robert and me when it comes to the ways of the world, I suppose," he said equably. "Though I doubt I shall ever have much to do with court matters, my lady - I am only a second son after all."

"Yes, but surely you will hold a fief under her brother's name someday?"

"That should be no trouble." He smiled wanly. "I am of the north, my lady, and I know of its ways."

"Oh yes, you're a northman," she said and decided to tease the solemn-faced boy. "I've heard _such _things of northmen..." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively at him. Any man of sense would have taken that as an invitation to bawdy talk. Ned Stark only looked gravely puzzled and at last she laughed and touched his arm. "You are a sweet thing. I only meant that I had heard that in the north, the men and women have the blood of wargs and skinchangers. Greenseers too."

"The greenseers are the crannogmen," he corrected her. "Or so they say. These are only stories, Lady Ashara, hearth tales. There is little magic in the north now, if there ever was, just as little in the south."

"Yes," she said dreamily, remembering something she had once overheard the prince tell the princess. "Magic is fading from the world. It began to die when the dragons died."

He bowed gravely to her. "My lady, if you will excuse me, I must needs arm for the tourney." Northmen were seldom knighted - it had to do with some aversion to being anointed by the seven oils of the Faith, she had heard - but Lord Stark's second son had been raised in an Andal household. On his eighteenth nameday he had knelt by his foster-brother's side and they had been knighted together by Lord Arryn. He would fight in the tourney though he had assured her, with disarming candor, that he was but an indifferent jouster and had no hope at all of winning glory on the field.

"Of course, Ser Eddard. I wish you luck." She smiled at him. Twice he made to leave her, only to come shuffling back, blushing and bowing and mumbling incoherently before scuttling back. By his third attempt she had guessed his purpose. She was already unlooping her violet silk girdle before he could repeat his attempt a fourth time. "Wear this for my sake, Ned Stark," she said warmly.

He was beet-red. "My lady is gracious. Have you- have you-" he hesitated, "I am sorry to be so forward, but have you given your favors to any other man today, Lady Ashara?"

"Yes," she said. As one of the leading beauties of the court she always had half-a-dozen men - at the very least - clamoring for her favors. Ser Barristan for one, constant as ever. Her brother who's allegiance was sworn to her and Princess Elia. Lady Santagar's son. She sighed when his face drooped a little - so he thought she had given him her favor for pity? The dear, silly boy. "But I have not given them this." She stood up on tiptoe and brushed her lips lightly against his, a butterfly kiss. Only for a moment, but it was enough.

"My lady- my lady-"

"Oh hush," she said, smiling faintly. She touched his shoulder lightly and was unable to keep herself from adding, "You silly boy." When he finally took his leave of her, his smile seemed as wide as his face was long.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Will add more to this chapter later...**


	13. Author's Note

Hello there anyone!

I would love to finish this story but I'm having a lot of problems writing it down - most specifically scenes with the 'tourney element' in them, since I'm not very good at that kind of stuff. If anyone wants to beta this story, please contact me and hopefully it should get done exponentially faster if I have a friendly beta.

Keeping my fingers crossed!


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